Beneath my Feet
by Earanthiel
Summary: In a futile attempt to flee the "pristine" morass of her life, Arwen finds herself in a deadly bind that only one man can remedy—if she can lay down her pride. But they are being watched, and time is running out... Chapter 6 up!
1. It Begins

- Beneath my Feet  
  
Author: Earanthiel  
  
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond  
  
Genre: Drama/Romance  
  
Warning: Het sex in this chapter and upcoming installments  
  
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.  
  
...........................................................................  
  
Chapter One: It Begins  
  
The waves of time beat ceaselessly against the shores of the present, eroding them, changing them, shaping them anew. The children of Men are born, age and die, as do all the other races. But I stand with my feet in the frigid ocean, gazing across its endless depths while the foaming tide swirls around my legs, immune to the pull of time. I am of the elven folk. I will not join in the cycle of age and death. I was born, once. But I shall not lay down my life, merge with the endless seas where mortal lives are extinguished forever. I am of the undying race, born before all others, and living beyond a million mortal lives, and more! Though we may pass from Middle-Earth to the Undying lands if we so choose, the spark of our lives will never be extinguished unless we are slain, in battle or otherwise, or die of a heart broken. We are not troubled by the small, insignificant illnesses of mortal folk. We are noble and courageous, proud, skillful warriors in battle and a lovely, graceful people when at peace and surrounded by the splendor we have created for ourselves. We reside in the lovely places of the world, the fairest and loveliest realms. We are immortal. We are the most perfect of all races.  
  
Ah, to see this way. Some may have called my vision clear as glass, while others must have laughed at my foolishness, dismissing it as the ramblings of an elflet's mind. I drew on my father's skill in battle and the depths of his stores of wisdom as proof of perfection, spinning myself a web from the confines of my mind. Looking back, I see myself as spiderlike, perched at the center of a tangle of lies.  
  
Perhaps it began with an arrow. Or a kiss. Or a falling sword.  
  
One cannot live in falsehood forever.  
  
.........  
  
Erestel couldn't find a word for the languor that was infusing his bones. He mulled over it as he lay on the couch watching dust motes in the syrupy sunlight of late afternoon. It was a combination of laziness and anticipation; the celebrations tonight would be sumptuous enough to satisfy the entire population of Imladris, and there would be plenty of opportunities for trouble.  
  
He remembered back to the last event Imladris had hosted and allowed himself a small twinge of pride. That elf maiden had been a thorn in his side, bringing him wine, trying to sway his attentions and arouse him to foolishness. She'd had about as much success as a wet cabbage would have. He'd put on a pretense of desirous interest and directed her to what she assumed was his room to wait for him.  
  
Erestel only wished he'd been able to see Elrohir's face when he came into his own room and found a lovely, barely clothed maiden waiting for him. He suspected Elrond's son had taken full advantage of the chance.  
  
The memory had successfully dissipated all traces of tiredness. Tonight, he thought contentedly, would be one to recall for years.  
  
...  
  
All Lady Arwen of Imladris wanted was a bath. The thought of the water cleansing the sweat from her skin and washing away the strain of exertion was like balm to a wound. Ah, for cleanliness, a rest... Instead, she forced her legs to move, jerking arrows from trees, the ground, and, in the case of one, a nearby bush. This one proved more difficult. As she straightened up and removed the twigs and leaves she'd collected from her clothes, she could have sworn the target was eyeing her scornfully.   
  
When she reached back to place the hard-won arrow in the quiver, it was empty.  
  
She put down her bow and swung the quiver off her back. She hadn't been wrong; it was empty except for a new green leaf in the bottom. She swung it back, confused, and reached down for her bow. It was gone.   
  
Bewilderment was slowly giving way to a name in her head. Only one person she knew could steal a bow from directly behind her without making a sound, and remove every single arrow from a quiver on her back. Smiling, she opened her mouth-  
  
-and closed it with an unmaidenly snap when she felt the bowstring cold against her throat, silken thread tightening as she took a breath. What... ? Either this was a serious attack, in which case all of Rivendell was in danger, and she had to  
  
Whoever was behind her let out their breath in a barely concealed laugh, and she groaned in dismay. "Erestel," she said, "you'd make a terrible warrior, you know. Afraid of killing a helpless maiden, now, are you?"  
  
The string lifted, and Erestel turned her around, taking her in his arms. "My lady, I most humbly beg your forgiveness for the liberty I took with your noble person. If you would be so good as to pardon my-"  
  
Arwen wrapped one arm behind his head and traced the line of his jaw with the other. "A kiss, if you would be so good, and your wrongdoing will be absolved."  
  
He laughed. "Save them for your lovers, Arwen. You do me too much honor. Besides, you want to look your freshest for the rest of us, tonight."  
  
"Poor taste," she said, accepted the offered bow and arrows.   
  
"And how?"  
  
"What do you think? 'The rest of us,' as you put it, wouldn't spare a glance for me." She gathered the straggling strands of hair that had pulled loose and tucked them back up again, watching his face. "They have their own lovers."  
  
He looked genuinely surprised. "I know of at least three elves of Imladris alone that would count themselves lucky to catch your eye. Also, Lothlorien should be arriving today, those that the Lady chose, and you know them better than I."  
  
"It was lovely there. Rumil was so kind to me," she murmured absently. "Oh, Elbereth! The sun, and I have to bathe before the celebrations-"  
  
"Your celebrations!" he began, but she was already gone, two brightly feathered arrows slipping from the quiver and striking the ground with a muffled sound against the leaves with a vibrating pulse like the very soil whispering.  
  
She'd been standing facing the sun the entire time; there was no way she could have not noticed it until then, he thought as he picked them up. The wood was warm against his skin. There was something very strange going on, and he'd bet a barrel of Elrond's finest wine that it would be solved tonight.  
  
...  
  
Oh, Erestel, if only you knew.  
  
The only sound in the bathing chamber was the sluice gates gently opening and closing, draining water from the base of the bath and spilling steaming liquid onto the top. She knew the celebrations were soon, but suddenly, the fact that her birthday had merited them wasn't as important as other things.  
  
She was frightened.  
  
Dipping her head under the water, she rubbed an hour's worth of sweat and grime out of her hair and face, working soap into a lather and slowly cleansing her entire body. Her arms were aching from her archery work, and the thought that no matter how hard she worked, she could not hit the cursed target, galled. She was skilled in the writing of poetry and song and in performing what she wrote. She knew the histories of the elves back to the days of Gil-Galad and beyond, and could ride passably well. But sword work was beyond her, and archery was even worse.  
  
She'd been a lovely maiden when she arrived in Lothlorien, and barely anything more. Galadriel, her grandmother, had educated her in all the skills she now possessed, and honed her talent to a point as sharp as her best warrior's sword. The Lady of Light, however, had neglected to mention swordplay and archery, and Arwen had assumed that she would have no need of them.  
  
Then Rumil of Lorien had made his fateful entrance.  
  
...  
  
Arwen had never seen anything as beautiful as Haldir's sword. The hilt was leather-bound, pommel inlaid with gold leaf, in itself a miracle of craftsmanship. He'd been awarded it as commemoration of his border service in the last year, and, as Galadriel pointed out with a laugh, who better to present it to him than Arwen herself? She'd laughed, thinking her grandmother was complimenting her beauty, and set off with it cradled reverently in her hands.  
  
Haldir's talan was close to the Lady's, near the center of an enormous mallorn. Above it, as she later learned, was his brother Orophin's, and below, Rumil's. She felt a small twinge of nervous energy as she tapped gently at his door; she'd never met anyone so elevated in military status as a March Warden. Receiving no answer, she tapped again, tucking the sword under her arm. It seemed cursed chance that the leather slipped on the fabric of her gown, and malicious intent when the sword clattered to the polished wood of the landing and pitched down the stairs.  
  
Forgetting all decorum and yelling in dismay, she plunged downwards after it. Metal struck metal as it ricocheted off the wrought railing, accompanied by her shouts of self-loathing and terror. What if it bounced off the stairs and struck someone on the ground below? Could a blow from a sheathed sword kill? And if it did, what would happen to her?  
  
Caught up in a mental picture of herself running all the way to the bottom only to find a bloodstained body impaled by the falling sword, she didn't notice the offending object until she tripped over it. Sprawling to her knees with a shout of pain, she reached for the sword, saw it mercifully unharmed, and threw it to the ground in rage. It, she thought as she glared at it, should have been damaged in some way, for all the trouble it caused her-  
  
Looking up, she saw a door. Wood beneath her feet. For a wild moment she thought she was back at Haldir's talan, but the carving on the door was subtly different. They complimented each other, she thought in a daze. Almost as if...  
  
Arwen picked up the sword and stood, clenching her hands around it as if to throttle it to death. "May the Valar curse you!" she shrieked, and with a last furious glare at the door, she turned to leave.  
  
"My lady?"  
  
She froze.  
  
Oh, Valar, please...   
  
"My lady, are you well?"  
  
Summoning up her last vestiges of dignity, she lifted her head and turned. "I am well, my lord." She stared fixedly at the tunic he was wearing. It was of fine workmanship; pale green embroidered with golden leaves. "Please forgive my intrusion."  
  
"Forgiven," he said. "Who are you looking for?"  
  
She followed the delicate pattern of vines tracing the shoulders of the tunic. "Haldir, my lord. Might you-"  
  
"Visiting the Lord Celeborn, as it happens."  
  
She looked up sharply and opened her mouth to curse. Of course, she thought later, it was no coincidence that he stepped forwards as she did so, and she looked full into his face. Her first impression was of unusually short auburn hair and a pair of striking green eyes set in an extraordinarily handsome face before he grinning and offered his arm. "Would you do me the honor of staying with me until he returns? My name is Rumil of Lorien-his brother."  
  
"Arwen of Rivendell," she said as he led her through the spacious front room and onto an open deck. "I'm here visiting-"  
  
"So I've heard. And other things, as well."  
  
"What other things?" she cried, outraged. "What have they all been saying-"  
  
"Nothing disfavorable," he said. "It isn't much to be embarrassed about, however-"  
  
"Oh, Valar! If all you're going to do-"  
  
He laughed, throwing his head back and tipping the chair onto its back legs. "You do blush easily... "  
  
"At least I'm civilized!" she shouted, and clapped a hand to her mouth in horror. "Oh, my lord, please forgive my rudeness! I meant no offense, truly!"  
  
"None taken. If you'd come out while I was cursing an inanimate sword, I probably would have been just as angry."  
  
"Considering, you would more likely have laughed it off."  
  
"Yes, you're probably right. What brings you to fair Lorien?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. "With no knowledge of how to make swords answer back! Shame on you."  
  
"Oh, for the sake of the Valar!" she cried. This elf was as unconventional as he was oddly handsome, and there was something about him that seemed to bring the worst in her to the surface. She could almost believe that it was the fact that she'd been standing on the landing of his talan that had made her fly into a rage at the sword. "And I assume you know the art?"  
  
"I can make any weapon answer to my hand," he said, taking the sword from where she'd lain it on the table and drawing it in a controlled motion. "This is one of the finest blades I have ever seen."  
  
"That is quite a boast, my lord."  
  
He tossed the sword into the air for answer, catching it by the hilt and whirling it about his head. Turning towards a pine chest at the far end of the room, he closed his eyes in concentration let go the hilt. Water, glass, and flowers sprayed into the air around the point, which had buried itself two inches into the wall.  
  
Rumil strode up, wrenched it out of the wood, and presented it hilt-first with a, "Your sword, my lady."  
  
"Was that quite necessary?" she asked, trying not show that she'd been visibly shaken by the display. He'd seemed calm, if rude and ridiculous, but this...  
  
"I would not seem proud without a reason."  
  
"And you surely... have one," she said, sheathing the sword. The point caught on the leather before it slid neatly into the hilt, and she spent a panicked moment checking for scratches before putting it warily down.  
  
"It seems alive, does it not?" he asked, watching her. She looked almost frightened of it, but the caution lingered as she looked up at him. He stood just inside the door, ignoring the shattered vase behind him, close enough to touch.  
  
"You could be my death," she said slowly. "Here, now. With that very sword."  
  
"There are other ways to kill," Rumil said, gauging her reaction. A flicker of worry, and then, barely, interest. Ah yes, he thought. Yes. "And they do not take much to learn."  
  
"You could teach me." It wasn't a question.  
  
Yes.  
  
"Easily."  
  
Arwen wanted to, more than she could truly say. Or felt comfortable saying. To spend more time with this strange elf, learn how to make a sword sing in her hand...  
  
"I must ask the Lady Galadriel before I answer," she said reluctantly. "I cannot consent without her blessing."  
  
"She is your teacher, not your jail ward!"  
  
"Nevertheless..." she said, standing. The sword was cool, the hilt still traced with the warmth of Rumil's hand. "I must go. Surely my lord Haldir will have returned by now."  
  
"Don't count on it," Rumil said, laughing. "Both my lord and Haldir are great talkers, and skilled in the art of wiling away time doing absolutely nothing at all. You cannot expect him until at least-"  
  
"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," she said sharply. "I must go."  
  
Rumil was left staring at the door, which still fairly quivered at the force of her hand.  
  
Arwen stood staring at Rumil's door for a long time, half-expecting it to open again and cringing at the embarrassment she would suffer if it did. She imagined his face when he saw her. "Arwen! I am sorry, I do not know how to make doors answer by sheer power of the mind, but if I could teach you, it would be my pleasure..."  
  
When she finally trudged up the spiral steps to Haldir's talan, she found that Rumil had been correct, and the door was as dark and unresponsive as his own. Haldir wouldn't be coming back until at least-  
  
Now she wished she'd listened.  
  
Unable to bear bringing the sword back to Galadriel and explain why she hadn't given it to Haldir, or, for no reason that she could explain, facing him, she placed the sword on the woven mat outside the door and left.  
  
...  
  
Galadriel looked her up and down curiously when she came in but didn't say anything. Arwen ran to her mirror in some trepidation and groaned at the sight. Her gown was in disarray from her undignified run down the stairs, and there was a tear at the knee where she'd fallen. She loosened her hair from its elaborate knot and closed her eyes, but instead of calm all she saw was Rumil's face.  
  
"You could teach me."  
  
"Easily."  
  
"Arwen? I trust Haldir was pleased with his sword?"  
  
She sat up and sighed. It would be such a sweet relief to tell her everything, to ask her permission to learn the sword and bow. However, all she said was, "He told me... that it was an honor merely to hold it in his hands."  
  
"It was one of the finest I've ever seen," she said, and Arwen found herself blushing with shame, seeing her lie crumble before her very eyes.  
  
"I sent word to your father many days ago, and have just received an answer. He says that he will send an escort for you. They will be here in seven days, in which time you are free to do as you will. I have taught you all I can."  
  
"My lady, I am always willing to learn-"  
  
"What I mean, Arwen, is that whatever else I tell you will mean nothing to you yet. There are things that only time can teach."  
  
"I-"  
  
"I cannot lay the stones of your life underneath your very feet."  
  
"Yes, my lady."  
  
With a brief brush of her lips across her granddaughter's forehead, she left the room.  
  
You are free to do as you will.  
  
She thought of Rumil's face and smiled.  
  
A few discreet questions led her to his door days later. She ran her finger over the design of the door, nerves tightening her body like a taut string as she listened to his unhurried footsteps across the carpet. The wood was exquisitely smooth against her skin. He would see her, he would break into that unrestrained smile, and then...  
  
"My lady Arwen!" he cried. "Is it possible?"  
  
"It is," she said, forcing the corners of her lips down and trying not tear her gaze away. "I came to apologize for my behavior the last time you offered me your hospitality. It was-"  
  
"-utterly uninfluenced by rules, regulations, or manners, which is what makes me so grateful to have you back," he assured her, opening the door as wide as possible so that she could slip by him and into the room.  
  
It was bathed in the crisp light of early morning, flooding through the windows ringing its circumference. She circled it, head back, until he coughed indiscreetly and she snorted. "Must you cut off my abject appreciation?" she asked, running a hand along the gold decoration around the edge of a chair. "You have quite the collection of finery here, you know."  
  
"I have no eye for decoration," he said. "Most of it was Orophin's idea. He thinks that-" he put on a ridiculous cultured voice "-the green and gold set off the radiance of the sun, which, as you can see, is being captured in great quantity to illustrate the point. Sometimes I think that my entire living quarters are a statement of Orophin's, though in whose favor... Forgive my rambling, I beg you." He sat down at the small table in the center of the room, pulling out a chair for her. "Somehow," he said shrewdly, "it seems that you are not only here to admire-or apologize," he added quickly as she opened her mouth. "It is too presumptuous to hope that you wish to take me up on my offer?"  
  
"Galadriel says that I am free to wander as I please; that she cannot teach me anything more. You may have noticed that she did not teach me weaponry."  
  
"Thought not for lack of skill. She is a mean hand with a blade when she has a mind. I think that she knew from the beginning that you had another teacher in mind."  
  
"I sound so pompous! Was I that obvious?" she cried, dismayed. "I could always ask her, if you don't want to waste your time."  
  
"Tell me," he said, grinning wickedly, "do you think this room beautiful?"  
  
"The epitome of," she replied warily. "My lord-"  
  
"Enough of that. I'm hardly your superior. Think on the fact that you are the daughter of the lord of Rivendell, and I am only the brother of Lothlorien's March Warden. So you think my room lovely. Do you think the lowly sun is wasted on it?"  
  
"Not hardly... "  
  
"Then it therefore seems obvious that my humble services cannot be wasted in further enhancing your loveliness. Does that convince you? Then to the practice field, my budding flower!"  
  
"Hold, hold!" Arwen cried. "Is not the sun mightier than a single flower?"  
  
"The sun's brilliance is not pleasing to look upon, but you shine with a light that is more heavenly than it by far. Now will you come?"  
  
"I thought we would-you would teach me here... ?"  
  
"Here? You would break another vase, and I don't believe in destroying perfectly acceptable things without a reason."  
  
"If I told you my reason was that I didn't want to humiliate myself in front of scores of people, would that make a difference?"  
  
"Sadly, it would not. They'll understand. You can wear these." He tossed a tunic and breeches of well-worn cloth into her arms. "Well? Are you coming, or not?"  
  
Arwen had come out of that first lesson feeling even worse than she did now, and much more exasperated. The thought was comforting. That and the fact that she would be seeing Rumil again this very night. She hoped he was still as cynical and amusing, not to mention handsome, as before. He would probably get along with Erestel exceedingly well, she thought as she dressed. The two of them had much the same appetite for trouble.  
  
The gown she chose was so deep a red it was almost black, like a bleeding rose. It was a heavy velvet, with tiny jet buttons all down the front and gold embroidery all along the hem and neckline. There was a twining gold coronet that went with it, and she hesitated a moment before settling it on top of her swept-up hair. The effect was regal and, she thought with a self-conscious smile, stunning.  
  
She practiced walking with her head held high down the steps and through the courtyard, where she was almost knocked over by Nethilia. "Lothlorien is here!" she cried. "The March Warden and the Lady both! You must come!"  
  
On account of the gown, she could not run as she would have liked, and therefore arrived slightly behind everyone else. Due to her height, however, this was not too great of a problem. Looking over the shoulders of the elves in front of her, she scanned the procession. Galadriel had most likely already passed, and if Rumil were here, he wouldn't be too far behind.  
  
In the wake of excitement came the first stirrings of doubt. What if he weren't here? Someone had to stay and guard, and if Haldir himself had come...  
  
The procession had almost drawn to its close, winding its way towards the stables with the horses, laughter scattering backwards like tiny birds on their first flight. Arwen sighed. She shouldn't have expected him to be here in the first place, but the thought of his red-gold hair and merry eyes was the wave that capsized her fragile heart.  
  
No need to be so sad, she told herself sternly. He's one elf among hundreds, and there'll be enough merriment tonight to more than make up for it. She caught sight of Erestel taking the arm of a small Lothlorien maiden brought a reluctant smile to her lips; she'd be one of many tonight.  
Perhaps one of these so-called admirers would approach her tonight. If Erestel hadn't just been trying to lift her spirits when he told her about their questionable existence.  
  
"He told me himself that he wouldn't be coming."  
  
Arwen started and whirled. "Oh, my lady-who?"  
  
Galadriel was heavily cloaked in deepest green, with her head bowed so that her face was hidden in shadow. She stood shorter than Arwen remembered, but her voice was quite the same.  
  
"Listen," Galadriel told her, an odd trace of amusement in her normally tranquil tone. "I know only too well that this despairing look on your face is only because of the absence of Rumil. The look on his face was all too telling-he wanted to see you just as much as you want to see him."  
  
She smiled. Of course he would have said so. He also said she was a flower, once, and himself the sun. "Stuck-up thing," she said. "I'm sure he was in the deepest mourning."  
  
"Oh, don't worry. He was fairly sobbing when he relayed the news to my waiting ears," she said. Her voice was low and unmistakably sarcastic.  
  
"Thank you, my lady," Arwen replied, bewildered. "It is... my pleasure... to see you again."  
  
"But do you really see me?"  
  
"As you stand, my lady... "  
  
"Didn't I tell you not to use such royal titles with me? How dare you!"  
  
"Truly, I am sorry," Arwen said, lowered her eyes and making a gesture of deference.   
  
Galadriel threw off the cloak.  
  
Rumil said later that her expression was one of the strangest things he had ever seen, and she could well believe it, torn as she was between rage, delight, and disbelief. "Rumil!" she cried, throwing herself at him. "Rumil, what in the name of all that is sacred are you doing? Galadriel- oh, Lords," she groaned, gasping for breath in his unbearably strong hold. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were wearing one of her dresses!"  
  
He embraced her tightly and let her stumble backwards, eyes still shining with disbelief. He took of the cloak with a sigh, and the sight of the fateful green and gold tunic sent her until paroxysms of laughter, once she'd torn her eyes away from his face.  
  
...  
  
Most of the Lothlorien maidens had already sampled Erestel's considerable charm, helped along, to be quite honest, but a few too many glasses of wine. It was heady stuff, deep red and potent as a sword blow, with a pleasant aftertaste of guilt. The only truly disappointing incident had involved a maiden, Tarenuel; she seemed more serious than all the others, despite the fact that she had submitted fairly willingly to his first kiss.  
  
She'd watched as he smiled at her. She was certainly lovely, and had proved able to hold up her end of a conversation with unique style. Certainly, he thought as he leaned towards her once more, an intriguing prospect, if only for one night.  
  
He almost didn't notice when she stood, and just managed to save himself and rise as well. "My lady," he began quickly, "is there-"  
  
"I didn't think you wanted this much of me," she said quietly, taking a few steps away. "I have a lover who is here tonight, and I cannot betray him in this way. Please do not take my words amiss-I meant no offense," she added as he turned away. "If you would speak more with me-"  
  
"I am sorry," he said, taking her hand. "I should not have been so bold."  
  
"I should not have let you," she said, and with one look at his still face left him to watch the dancers. They made a colorful tapestry, pleasant to watch, and, he thought, even more enjoyable to join. But the one person he would dance with was engaged.  
  
He watched her face. It had changed, some time during the night while he was away with another, turned bright with happiness. She'd honored some unspoken vow to her partner, hardly ever leaving his side, laughing with him as if they were old friends.  
  
Much, it seemed, had happened while she was away.  
  
A name was making its slow way to the surface of his memory, along with a vivid picture; her face, looking up at the sun, feigning shock. "Oh Elbereth! The sun... "  
  
Rumil of Lorien was so kind to me...  
  
Rumil...  
  
The wine was certainly popular. Rumil had consumed a carefully proper amount, at odds with his nature, and Arwen, going against her instincts, had already downed two glasses. It was enough-enough to loose the thoughts she tried to lock back.  
  
Rumil was a good dancer, she found herself thinking. Exceptionally skilled, and more than a little handsome. There were no real excuses she could make except ignorance; he'd been wearing this same splendid tunic when she met him. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before.  
Then she realized she had.  
  
It was hard to look at him, even when the dance forced her to, and she had to fight down the flush that crept up her face when she did. Was it the wine? she wondered. It couldn't be. She was still clear-headed, by her judgment, but the thought of the long night ahead brought a telltale heat to her cheeks. Had he taken a lover while she was gone, or had he remembered her? There was no way she could think to possibly ask.  
  
She stumbled, missing a step, and throwing their rhythm into disarray; he stepped back and waited until she took his arm again. His expression was carefully closed, she couldn't fail to notice, and his eyes darted to a certain corner of the room every time they turned that way. It had to be chance, she told herself. There was no one over there except an elf she didn't know, who was in the midst of what looked like a spirited discussing with Erestel. The thought of him stabbed shamefully into her breast; she hadn't talked to him all night.   
  
Arwen spun the wrong way and fetched up against Rumil's chest, looking full into his face. He didn't move, and she waited for the smile and the wry comment about her lack of grace. Neither came.  
  
They finished the dance in a decidedly uncomfortable silence, after which she turned and walked quickly away. Erestel must be close, she thought, and if not I can always check the bedrooms. She tried a smile at the idea.  
  
...  
  
Arwen found him in the garden, just outside the open arch, with hardly any difficulty, following his preoccupied eyes to the maiden he'd been talking with before dancing with Rumil. They were executing the steps as if she'd practiced them with him all her life. She'd picked up a full glass of wine on the way and drunk it far too quickly-her head was already spinning. "Failed conquest?" she asked, grinning.  
  
He didn't smile back. "More than. She has a lover, and she has that sense of honor that is my curse."  
  
"Who is the lover?" she asked cautiously.  
  
"Considering the circumstances, I didn't think to ask. She said he is here, tonight."  
  
"I'm surprised she isn't with him now, for all her honor."  
  
He looked at her sharply, but didn't reply. She was watching Rumil, which carried the benefit of his being able to study her face for as long as she liked, and the sting of the look in her eyes.  
  
I love her.  
  
I love her with all I have, and she is besotted with an elf who, for all I know, doesn't have a certain maiden in his arms right now. She doesn't see it, does she? She wouldn't think to notice that he doesn't feel a thing for her, would she, because she can't see beyond her own nose.  
  
"I didn't think to ask," he said, "but I know, well enough."  
  
"Who is it?" she asked, with a pronounced lack of interest. So she didn't see, and couldn't care. After all, Tarenuel was one of many, and no one, no one, knew it better than she did.  
  
He regretted saying anything, but, oddly, the thought of lying didn't even enter his mind. There was no going back with this, because if he didn't say anything now, his very bones would explode with the force of holding back and he would fall down bleeding and scrabble at the hem of her gown as he died.  
  
"Rumil. The one you danced with."  
  
Her eyes closed, and she let out her breath in a tiny sigh that filled his ears and his heart. Disgusting, sick remorse. He opened his mouth but the words were pressed back by a wordless desire that lifted his arms around her waist and lowered his mouth to hers.  
  
Arwen let him kiss her, clinging to him like a drowning woman. She knew she'd collapse if he wasn't holding her, and it frightened her. His lips were warm, moist, tongue brushing across her bottom lip. She pulled her head back, gasping, and looked up to see his eyes averted, chest rising and falling gently below her arms.  
  
She knew she should say something, about anything besides Rumil, but the first words out of her lips were, "Is it true?"  
  
"True enough," he said wildly. "Perhaps, then, if we have both been rejected by one of them, we should accept each other."  
  
"Erestel-" she said. "I can't-I've never-"  
  
In answer he kissed her again, fiercely. "I know you do not love me," he said at the end of it, his eyes searching frantically for hers, "but if you will have me now, I will never, ever, speak of it again! I swear it!"  
  
Arwen was terrified by his mood, swayed as it was by drink, rejection, and desire. It is not in Elven nature to make love without commitment, and even Erestel had never strayed so far as to spend the night with a woman and go about his business as if nothing had occurred. Kisses and sweet words were well enough, but this was far beyond, and the danger of it was frightening beyond words.  
  
And beneath the fear...  
  
Erestel was experienced, and she had no knowledge of how far his skills might reach. She herself had come close enough to making love on two occasions-one too near for her taste-and she knew what it entailed in good detail, but the prospect itself...  
  
"Come to bed with me, Arwen," he whispered. "The stars will bless our union."  
  
The third glass was going to her head. She whispered something unintelligible, the whisper making her skull ache, and kissed him awkwardly. She felt his arms grasping at her as she slid down, but she did not know whether he followed her to the ground.  
  
...  
  
They were naked, entwined, gasping-her voice and his own. She had no idea how they'd gotten into her bed, but the reality was stark enough. His lips on her breast were harsh, dry with desire, and her hands were on his shoulders, pulling him closer, body responding like a lyre string to his own.  
  
She would lose it all soon; her virtue, honesty-what elf would have her now? His lips moved down her body, leaving a glistening trail, finding the sacred space between her legs and pleasuring it with his tongue until she arched against him, moaning, pleading. His phallus was erect and shining with fluid-had she taken him in her mouth? Something said she had-poised to enter her with one thrust and end it forever. Desperate to prolong the moment, she reached for his hair, twining it in her fingers, trying to pull him down, but he jerked his head away. The tip of his phallus just touched her skin and she bit back a cry, and he laughed at her, waiting, waiting, until she tossed onto her stomach and pulled her silken bedsheets around herself, sobs shuddering the whole length of her body, mourning his twisted face.  
  
His hand grasped her shoulder, and she turned to face him with a scream, to see nothing but her empty room, the first light of dawn shattering against her eyes as she closed them, moaning with the pain. Her head was splitting open, and Erestel was nowhere in sight.  
  
Her body still throbbed with the aftermath of the dream, painfully, and for a moment she thought that he'd taken advantage of her immobile state the night before. Tears starting in her eyes, she threw the sheets off to find herself still in the red gown, her hair in tangled disarray, and the door locked from the inside.  
  
The inside...?  
  
She stood up shakily and went over to the window. It was open a crack, a breeze ruffling the curtains, and she could see the marks of a grown elf descending the curling vines down the wall. Opening her eyes a mere crack more and sobbing with the pain of it, she made out the body below.  
  
He must have fallen. From how high? She could see no trace of movement, and one arm was bent strangely below his body. Oh, Valar, was he dead? Fumbling for a robe, she made her way through the fog of agony to the door, down the deserted steps. By the time she had rounded the corner of the building and crashed, ungainly, through the garden, tears were streaking her cheeks and her fingernails had left white crescents against her forehead.   
  
He was breathing. She shook him once, twice, whispering his name. Her lips were cracked and dry. Erestel's mouth opened and closed slightly, head lolling. "You have to get up," she sobbed, "they'll find you here and ask questions, Erestel, get up, wake up!" Still he didn't move. She whispered a prayer and began to hit him across the face, stinging slaps on both cheeks until he groaned and cracked open an eye. "Get up," she cried, "get up! You're underneath my window and the whole house will be waking soon! Can you stand?"  
  
She put her hands under his shoulders and tried feebly to lift him, but his weight sagged against her knees and forced her onto her back on the cool earth, soil pressing gently against her skin. Her stomach boiled upwards and she rolled over and vomited over and over until she was reduced to spitting out bile. Then Erestel's hands were around her waist, lifting her, cradling her against his chest, his voice like the creek in summer in her ear.  
  
How long she lay there, she did not know. It was long enough; to calm her rebelling body and still the irregular pounding in her head to a distant rhythm. His fingers were clenching into her flesh like vices; she pulled away, trying to look up at him, but he pulled her roughly upright and began to stumble away.  
  
"Erestel!" she cried, wavering on her feet. He looked back, face torn, and made his way back to hold her up. "You need to wash," he said. "Get back to your rooms."  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked, but her words fell to the ground through the dead air and shattered there.  
  
Leaning on each other, they managed to get back up the curving stairway to the top, where the path ended in a fountain before a series of arches leading into the house itself. There they both stopped, exhausted. Arwen collapsed on the rim of the fountain and splashed herself with icy water until her face was flushed and dripping.  
  
Erestel was leaning against one of the pillars, face a disturbing shade of grey. He saw her looking and his eyes slid away as if meeting with an insurmountable barrier, a flush creeping impossibly through the pallor.  
  
"Will you forgive me?" he demanded suddenly, turning her way and locking her eyes with his, holding her gaze with an almost physical exertion.   
  
"For what?" she replied blearily, still in shock from the cold.   
"For speaking improperly to you and violating your honor."  
  
"Violating-? It was a kiss, Erestel!" she half-shouted, unable to hide the uncertainty in her voice. She'd passed out, she knew that much, and the sleep had been deep-she hadn't even woken when he picked her up and carried her into her room, and if he'd done anything, anything at all...  
  
"Yes, it was! And I could have done more," he shouted, mouth twisted in insane rage. "I could have had my way with you while you slept, and you would have been none the wiser except for the pain between your legs! Time would tell, yes, and the rest of them would wait on your word." He buried his face in his hands, hair tangling between his fingers. "Ah, I am cursed. Cursed, that I would have to resort to drunkenness to tell you of my love, and because of it-"  
  
His shoulders shook beneath her as she held him, face buried in the fabric of his tunic. She didn't love him; it was beyond her to do so, and she knew beyond doubt that this was what he couldn't say. "How long, Erestel?" she asked. "How long has it been?"  
  
He was silent, but she knew.  
  
"Years, then."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I had no idea," she said desperately. "None at all-"  
  
"For this I can only blame myself," he said, twisting out of her arms. "Leave me. I would speak no more with you."  
  
She ran after him a ways, but her legs were still weak, and her breath was coming in clenching gasps before she'd gone five yards. He would be rooms and rooms away, she thought as she grasped at the wall to steady herself, but it was only an excuse not to follow. She would have been afraid to face him no matter what the circumstance; as lover, friend, or whatever she had become to him now.  
  
Arwen examined the problem from every side The incident with Erestel was bad enough, but Rumil... ah, Valar, Rumil. Elves rarely love, truly love, without eternal commitment, and they could already be planning marital celebrations for all she knew. Which wasn't all that much. She'd developed a close friendship with Rumil during her stay in Lothlorien but hadn't found out all that much besides his family, military exploits, and numerous odd and fairly useless bits of information such as what type of stew he liked to eat in lulls during the fighting and that he hated roses as an expression of love.  
  
She thought briefly of finding his room and leaving one at his bedside while he slept. The ultimate irony, she thought with a grin. He'd have to know who it was from, and what it meant, and meanwhile he'd have no way to reach her.  
  
It was a pleasant thought, but she knew she'd never be able to do it. The sight of his face would irrevocably ruin her plans, and she'd probably either kiss him or slap him, which would wake him, and she'd have to explain.  
The problem, she thought as she tacked towards the stables, was that she couldn't even explain it to herself.  
  
...  
  
The window was a lofty one, affording a view of the both the gorge and the path leading parallel to it and eventually out of sight. It was currently open, letting the bitingly cool morning air flood in, accompanied by the elusive scent of mist and the sharp, clipped sound of hoofbeats.  
  
The elf standing at it looked down and saw a familiar rich brown mare pounding precariously down the path, mane whipping back to tangle with the loose hair of the rider. It was a woman, and competent; she was handling the horse with reckless skill. She had a large pack strapped to her back and a sheathed sword at her waist, belted down securely so as not to tangle with her legs. It was all he could see at a glance.  
  
He knew the horse and the rider. It was slightly surprising to him that she should be leaving at this hour of the morning in full battle dress, especially with a bow. Her skills with this instrument of death needed considerable work, though from what he'd seen of her archery sessions, practice was all that was really required.  
  
The settling dust had just about exhausted his capacity for staring blankly at one thing for long periods of time when the second horse tore past. He only caught the horse's sleek flanks disappearing below, and what he could see of the elf astride offered no ideas as to his identity. He was heavily cloaked and hooded, with a bow and twin daggers strapped to either hip; he could see their handles protruding through the deep green weave.  
  
It was none of his business what she did in the spare hours of the morning. Time enough to see her when she woke.   
  
He turned away from the window.  
  
...Thanks all for reading, and please review! I find flames pointless, usually stupid, and mainly amusing, but if you feel you must...   
  
Chapter Two: The secrets of Gilraen's past are brought to light, Arwen is being followed by someone more dangerous to her than she could ever imagine, and Elrond is revealed to have strangely erotic healing skills... 


	2. The Cold Hours

Beneath my Feet  
  
Author: Earanthiel  
  
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond  
  
Genre: Drama/Romance  
  
Warning: Mild innuendo, violence, angst...  
  
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.  
  
Chapter Two: The Cold Hours  
  
I hid behind myself, I suppose. I had no idea that he even existed, and this was partly the reason. I have known no one else who was more adept at disregarding their own outward appearance. But before he found me lying battered and bloody on the ground that day, I made my body into a screen behind which I could view the world. I was safe if I was beautiful, accomplished, and perfectÑand if anything happened to threaten my screen, I backed away from it, leaving a cold, empty shell to withstand the onslaught of emotion. Rumil was the first to approach it, but he did so with open arms. I was soothed by his demeanor, and my hand strayed push the veil aside.  
  
Of course, once I learned of Tarenuel, I retreated far enough away that he could not see me, into the depths he was unwilling to penetrate. Erestel was willing enough, but I had the questionable good grace to slip even farther away.  
  
Then came Aragorn.  
  
When Arwen woke the next morning, it was with stiff cramps the length of her body, her hair tangled in the bedroll, and one side soaked where she'd rolled into a damp patch to her immediate right. Sitting up with no effort to stifle a drawn-out groan of pain, she reached for her pack only to find that she'd left it open in the night, and the loaf of bread she'd been eating the night before was soggy and ruined with damp.  
  
She rose in high bad humor and saddled Faon, tightening the straps of the heavy leather affair with irritable jerks. The road wound on to the west, twisting from side to side with quiet grace. The smell of morning was thick in her nostrils: crystals of dew, damp leaves, and the fleeting scent of earth.   
  
"We'll keep on," she said to Faon, wincing as she stood. Her limbs were taut as a brittle branch. The mare nickered softly, nudging her with her bristly nose. "West," she murmured. "Always west."  
  
The morning, she had to admit, left nothing to be desired. Arwen managed to smooth down her cloak, coax her hair into a presentable state, and banish the last shreds of sleep from her face before leading Faon out of the forest to the road. She told herself that if she happened to meet one of the border guards, she wanted to be able to escape suspicion, but she knew that anyone she met this far out would have strict orders to escort her back to Rivendell without delay.   
  
There was a nagging sense of unease fluttering about inside her skull, insisting on attention. She managed to pin it down to the fact that what she'd done was childish, immature, and utterly useless. Besides not having brought the right gear for an excursion like this, there was nothing to do except watch Faon's hooves raise breaths of dust in the heavy air and wonder what Rumil was doing at the moment, whether Erestel had successfully lured Tarenuel away from him yet, and if Elrond was worried about her at all.  
  
Of course, if he were as intelligent as everyone gave him credit for, he would ask a large number of questions before sending anyone out after her. She hoped guiltily that Erestel wouldn't tell the truth about what had happened, but it was too much of a slim chance. It would be excruciating for him, but it would, in his mind, possibly save her life.  
  
Elrond, she reasoned, would either wait for her return or send warriors out instantly. They would probably be able to track her to some extent. No, she thought despairingly. They would most definitely find her, and bring her back to face the stares of the other elves, Rumil's confusion, and Erestel's...  
He loved her.  
  
It was horrible to find out, after so many years, that he'd seen her as so much more than a friend. Her dream and the events that preceded it came back to her in an explosive rushÑhis lips on hers, hands sliding tenderly down the curve of her arms to her hips, drawing her closer  
  
Her fists clenched on Faon's reins at the thought, but the idea of taking him as her lover was even worse. She could never engage in such acts as he had initiatedÑshe'd known him since they were both elflets! He knew her too intimately, as could be expected from centuries of friendshipÑhe could provide details about her life that she'd never want a lover to have. It would make for equally matched battles, if they arose, she thought wrylyÑshe knew just as much about him.  
  
Applying a mild pressure on Faon's reins, she guided her away from a small pit in the road ahead. The mare twitched her head from side to side, hooves skittering in the dust. Arwen clenched her legs around the horse's sides and exerted all of her strength, dragging Faon's head around. The mare snorted through her nose and dug her back legs in, inching towards the center of the road. Arwen took both reins in one hand and spread her fingers over Faon's trembling neck, willing her to calm. She knew she couldn't hold her for much longer if she continued to resistÑher skill with horses was rudimentary, and the mare was out of all conceivable control.  
  
"Faon, Faon," she whispered, glancing to either side. The stately forest gazed placidly back in the second before her concentration was wrenched away. Nothing there, and yet  
  
"Faon!" she shouted, biting down hard on her lip to keep from panic. The mare could feel her fear and worked on it, fighting as if possessed. Her head jerked up and down, the bit sawing into her mouth. Arwen slid in the saddle, teeth grinding into each other. "Faon, Faon, hold," she moaned, sliding a hand up the horse's neck again, trying to infuse it with calm. "Slow, slow. Turn now, and calm..."  
  
Shaking like like drapes in a gale, Faon's movements slowed. Pale and horribly weakened, Arwen curled her fingers around the horse's mane. Her hands, slick with sweat, tangled themselves inextricably into the rough strands. Whispering whatever words came to mind, she let Faon retreat down the road until her nervous energy ebbed away and she was able to gently steer her west again.  
  
The feeling of unease was creeping at the back of her mind, waiting for an opening. Arwen decided it was only because of Faon's strange behavior. Perhaps she felt that they were nearing the borders of Rivendell's influenceÑyes, that was it. Of course she would sense it. The land had power here. It lurked beneath the roots and whispered in the leaves.  
  
Forcing a smile, she leaned down to whisper in Faon's ear, letting the words escape from her lips like caged birds. It was only after she straightened up that she realized that she'd forgotten anything and everything she'd said.   
  
Faon snorted, scuffling one hoof restlessly against the road. "We're going on," she said angrily, and dug her knees into the mare's resistant flanks.  
  
Though he didn't want to admit it, he had to finally accept that his sense of danger wasn't nearly as well-attuned as her horse's. He turned over the body with one foot, his face twisted at the stench. It permeated the air in thickening clouds. This was a long-dead corpse, one that had been left at least a day to the mercies of sun and small insect life.  
  
The mare must have smelt it. Hopefully, Arwen would understand.   
  
He dragged the filthy corpse off the road, stripped it of its weapons, and disposed of them as efficiently as he could. There would be more of the creatures, and all of them hungry for the additional arms. He checked its mismatched pieces of armor and clothing for any sign of what in the Valar's name it was doing, but there was nothing.  
  
Orcs. He spat on the carcass. If it had been alone he would have reckoned it a scout, but the ground around the body was torn with churning footprints and stained rusty with blood. Some kind of battle had been fought here, days ago, and the only testament lay rotten at his feet.   
  
This statement brought with it a host of unanswered complications, as myriad as the flies that even now were regrouping around the fallen orc. Why hadn't anyone reported the fight? The only people in the area were Rivendell's elven rangers, and any one of them would have secured the area as best they could, alerted one of their companions, and brought the news straight back. Perhaps the ranger had been injured. He might have died of wounds, blood loss...  
  
A swift search of the area revealed nothing. He wished, irrationally, that he had his horse. But if he did, all chances of protecting Arwen would be gone. She was behind him now, hopefully steering Faon towards Rivendell. He couldn't know what she had chosen: it had taken him far too long to reach this place on foot, with her horse's strange behavior at the back of his mind all the while.  
  
Suddenly he was assailed with the memory of her, the ageless curve of her lips as she smiled, the sound of her warm feet on bare stone. It came like a beast, eating away at his concentration, building up in his clenched fists and bowed head. Lips pressed painfully together, he opened his eyes to see the orc's body, sprawled in a disgusting parody of a drunken reveler in the dirt and crumbling leaves at his feet.  
  
Wrapping his fingers around the hilts of his twin knives, he drew them and began to hack at the corpse, plunging the deadly blades into fleshy hide over and over until both his hands and the knives themselves were slick with black blood. The blades scored huge, stinking wounds, spraying drops of gore into the air. He cursed through clenched lips as he struck, great sobs wrenching out of his throat with harsh intensity, pulsing at the back of his head and pressing to be released.  
  
When it was over, he stabbed the knives into the ground up to the hilt and collapsed to both knees. There was a great emptiness inside him that he could not remedy, that even his senseless attack did nothing to allay. There was a voice, behind the endless roaring of his heart, that said weep, weep.  
  
He knelt there until the sun was high, the blood had encrusted itself to his knives and skin, and he heard the unmistakable sounds of hooves against packed earth drawing nearer down the road.  
  
Arwen's nerves were strung painfully tight as she rode, and the utter silence didn't help. The morning had seemed pleasantly warm when she began, but the heat was becoming oppressive. She seemed to be a stranger in a world of insects and gently waving grasses, with Faon and her occasional dead halts and constant twitching and shying at shadows her only company.  
  
A few yards down the road, the forest crept inwards to form a arc of trees, bending as if to conceal a secret. There was a strange smell on the air, at once sickly sweet and repulsive. It slid down her throat with every breath, asking her closer and warning her away.  
  
Faon seemed to have a penchant for pessimism: she refused to take another step. Arwen was another matter.  
  
There was a dark patch on the road ahead, as if someone had drenched it in water. Coming closer, she saw that it seemed, with the stench, to originate at a mutilated body that had been thrown into the forest to her left. Perversely fascinated, she pushed aside a bush, stared for a frozen moment, and doubled over vomiting.  
  
Once it seemed that her entire stomach had been expelled through her trembling lips, she stood and retreated to her waiting horse. The taste of bile was thick in her throat, and the bones of her legs were doing a pitifully inadequate job of holding her up. Faon seemed to have an extremely self-satisfied look in her large eyes, and Arwen gave her a weak look of disgust and attempted to mount. It took her two tries.  
  
She forced herself to survey the area. It was difficult to tell, what with the copious amounts of blood, exactly where whatever it was had originally died. It seemed that there had been some type of battle in and around the road, judging by the crushed and trampled grass. Though mangled beyond recognition, it looked as if the creature had been laid neatly out after death.  
  
Arwen closed her eyes. Maybe her sudden onslaught of illness had weakened her mindÑnone of this was making sense. The sight of the carcass had affected her more than she liked to let on, and her skills at interpreting the carnage were woefully lacking.  
  
Fingers clenched around the reins, she snapped them gently against Faon's neck. "Don't fear," she said, "it's dead now, Faon. We'll go on by."  
  
There was a voice, behind, above, inside her, that was warning her to turn back. It was quiet and strangely commanding, binding her upright in the saddle and entwining itself into her ears.   
  
"No."  
  
She snapped the reins again, this time with a hint of anger, but Faon refused to move. "Think on what you have seen. You'll be killed before you ever see your home again."  
  
"The patrols can take care of the orcs."  
  
"What if the patrols are already dead?"  
  
"Do you really think a lumbering orc could dispatch one elvish ranger?"  
  
"There are more ways of death than by the sword."  
  
Arwen shook her head in disgust. Talking to the empty air. She would soon be professing her love to the pines! She dug her knee into Faon's sides feeling the warm hardness of her flesh beneath the sleek flanks. "Stealth? Cunning? Orcs have none of these qualities."  
  
"Look around, Arwen. Use your eyes. Orcs are not the only danger."  
  
The voice had a hint of disappointment in it, and she felt unreasonably lacking somehow, as if she'd been assessed and found unsatisfactory. Dismounting, she knelt beside the patch of blood on the road, digging a toe into the dirt. It had been there a good amount of timeÑbut how long? There were footprints by the side of the road, where the dirt was soft, but all she could tell was that whoever had made them seemed to have a pronounced determination to obscure all references as to their identity. Heaving a sigh, she glanced at the bushes. The foul carcass was there, she knew, and the thought made her shiver in revulsion.  
  
Taking a small breath and chastising herself for being a fool, she forced back the shrubs and crouched next to the fallen orc. It was almost impossible to tell what it had once been. The cuts were cleanly made, with a sharpened blade, and thickly congealed with wet blood. The stench lay unmoving in the air in an almost palpable fogÑif she opened her mouth she could taste it thickly on her tongue. Choking, she retreated, trying to replace the image that had been seared into her mindÑthe congealed blood on bared teeth, hands frozen into crooked claws  
  
She stopped. Wet blood...  
  
Forcing her head around, she saw what she had feared. Losing a pitched battle with panic, she whirled and forced past the bushes, biting her lip as the clinging branches bit into her hands and arms. Faon whinnied at the stench that still clung to her, shying away from her bloody hands.  
  
That orc had been killed and left to rot, and someoneÑsomethingÑhad come upon it and uselessly, horribly...  
  
Disgusted with herself, she leaned over and retched again, heaving until her throat was dry and burning with the acid taste of vomit. Her hair hung damp around her face, clinging to her bare skin. With a sob of loathing, she dug her knees viciously into Faon's sides, hauling her head to face west again.  
  
She opened her eyes without being aware she'd closed them. Her face was wet with tears and horse sweat, and her lashes had gummed shut. Sighing, she wrestled her fingers out of the tangle of Faon's mane. Even if her motives had been less than glorious, the thought that the only good thing that had resulted from her escape was this galled. Elrond would probably have extracted the story from Erestel by now, and the tale would have spread and grown. She wouldn't be surprised if the gossips had invented salacious stories of Erestel seducing and bedding her, probably on a bed of dewy roses after a long night of dance and wine. She could just see Mellan smiling sweetly as she sewed, gown pooling between her slender legs. "You know Arwen," she would say. "She would never have let him do such things if she hadn't found out the truth. It's said she tried to lure the brother of Lorien's March Warden into her bed while she was staying there, but of course Tarenuel had already warmed it well enough. So when Erestel had had a glass too many, she was only too willing..."  
  
Arwen groaned and clenched her fingers around Faon's reins, only to find that they were patterned with shallow cuts and speckled with blood. She lifted her hands to inspect them, running one finger along the web of lines, gasping at the dulled pain. What could have happened to...?  
  
The memory of the orc came back to her in sickening rush, battering the easy prey of her weakened mind. Lip clenched between her teeth, she glanced around her at the warm afternoon. There was nothing. Of course. The patrols would have taken care of the orcs with no trouble at all. None at all. If she could just get out of this place, and soon, she would be all right. They couldn't touch her. She was the daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and no filthy creature could touch her.  
  
She realized she was mumbling and closed her mouth hard. Her whole body was shaking, but it wasn't cold. No, it was the height of a glorious summer, so why did she feel naked? She pulled her cloak closer around her to combat the chill, but her fingers slipped on the fine weave and the garment fell away.  
  
"I am royalty," she whispered through shaking lips. "I am safe."  
  
He watched her mare stop, idling from one side of the road to the other in nervous unrest. She slumped in the saddle, fumbling for the reins. Even disabled by terror and exhaustion, she was a lovely creature, and he felt desire surge to challenge worry. There was no way she'd make it back to Rivendell on her own, and there was no chance of him showing himself to her. Not here, not now. He didn't know if he could control events once they were set in motion any more than he could hold off the entire might of Morgoth in his days of power with nothing but a bow and sword.  
  
I am not afraid of you, my lady, he thought as he watched her. I only wish that I could be.  
  
Of course, months ago he wouldn't have recognized the feeling. He'd had a lover, then. Perhaps he still did. Had he been sincere enough?  
  
Against his will, he unlaced the neck of his tunic and lifted out the stone from where it rested in the hollow of his throat. It was warm from its contact with his skin. Pressing his fingers against it as if to hold in the heat, he turned the problem over and over in his mind. Besides showing himself and turning his back on her, there was only one thing he could do, and the very thought disgusted him. Lord Elrond would have trusted the boy called Estel, but there was no reasoning behind his love. He himself had been there, in the Hall of Fire, when the woman fell against the door, pounding her pale fist against the wood until Nenneth made her way through the press of warm bodies to open it.  
  
She had collapsed across the elf, her face white with cold. One arm clutched a sodden bundle to her chest, and her drenched clothes clung to her skin. Even her eyes seemed washed-out and pale. He'd watched her saw Nenneth bend down, her ear to the woman's lips, for a long moment. Finally, the elf nodded and reached out to take the bundle.  
  
The woman fell to her knees, tears tracking erratically down her cheeks. She had been beautiful, once, but something had wasted her down to this pale shadow. Her wrists were so thin he could have wrapped two fingers around it with ease, but her eyes retained a spark of what had to have been a lovely flame. "Thank you, my lady," she choked. "May the blessings... may the blessings of the Valar be upon you."   
  
Nenneth's back stiffened for an instant: then she rallied herself and extended one hand to help the woman to her feet. "You honor me," she said clearly. "Come. You need rest, and warmth."  
  
At the sound of Nenneth's words the woman gave a sigh of release, the wordless sound a mariner might make, stepping from the solid ground onto the salty deck of his craft again. Elrohir reached out and took the tangle of cloths, folding the layers aside with one hand. A cry of surprise broke from his lips.  
  
There was a child cradled within the frigid wrappings. Its small mouth was devoid of color, and the curling lashes brushed harshly against its skin. The elf unwrapped the cloth around the boy, unfastened his own cloak in one smooth motion, and folded it gently around him. Elladan, across the hall, made a loud jest about skills one never knew one had and Elrohir gave him a licentious smile and a wink. Nenneth took hold of his arm and steered him out of the door to uproarious laughter.  
  
He frowned. There was something about the woman that he couldn't place, that not even the renewed bardic attempts could banish. Alien, and yet strangely familiar. Her skin was not as luminescent as an elf's, and her features were harsh and spare, but they commanded a hawk-like beauty nonetheless. More than hawk-like. Commanding. Almost royal.  
  
He made his way to Elladan's side. He'd had what could tentatively be called a brotherhood with Elrond's sons for years, fraught with the usual rivalries over women, ridiculous pranks, and shared excursions into drink and fancy. It was mainly from this last that Erestel had discovered that the more drink Elladan consumed, the more he tended towards unnatural sobriety. But this was only after his fifth flagon, and by the looks of it, he was only on his third.  
  
"Hail, oh lord of silence!" Elladan cried as he approached. "Have the visitors stolen your words?"  
  
Filling a glass with rich red wine and sipping slowly, he tried to force his thoughts into a recognizable mold. "How is it that she invoked the Valar?" he asked casually. "I thought that mortals did not worship Elven gods."  
  
"Perhaps it was only an attempt to win favor," Elladan replied. "She looked near death."  
  
"But who could have told her of them? It is a high honor to have the Valar called on your behalf."  
  
"Half the time." Elladan shrugged. "Mostly it is used as a courtesy. Perhaps she has been here before, and knows what is expected. Don't bother yourself over her! Lord Elrond will heal her and send her back to the father of her child."  
  
He smiled in agreement, drained his glass, and left the hall.  
  
There was an old Elven proverb about age. Something concerning the desire to mature when one was young, and the reverse as age nipped and worried at one's heels...  
  
Well, he could hardly be labeled as ancient, but the fact remained that he had grown. The tangle of vines pressed against his chest, digging viciously. Writhing in discomfort, he peered into the window. When he was considerably thinner and markedly less heavy, he had been able to scale the wall with ease, but now he could feel the vines shift ominously beneath his feet.  
  
Just a few more moments, to make sure the room was truly empty, and he would be on solid ground. Safe in an immediate sense, but in more danger than he had ever been in his life.  
  
All he could see was the spacious bed and the stand beside it, shaped to represent a tree with a candle set in each branch. A select few had been lit, picking out the extremities of light and shadow. Beyond, he knew, the room was sparsely furnished, each piece selected to suggest opulence and subtly remind the few who gained entrance just whose chamber they were standing in.  
  
Or peering into.  
  
He could see no one, and the vines were making their protests known in a disturbing fashion. Elrond had opened the window, presumably to take advantage of the warm breeze, and he made easy work of his entrance. Swinging his legs over the edge and landing catlike on the balls of his feet, he glanced around him, every nerve on edge. If he was caught hereÑif anyone heard  
  
Finally, he made his way across the room and into the hallway, making sure to blow out a few of the candles on his way. The less light the better, he reasoned, and he knew the room well enough to make a hasty retreat if needed. Give Elrond's rage enough time to sheath its claws.  
  
Then he heard it. An unmistakably male voice, speaking low, soft Elvish into the dark. He tensed, his head snapping towards the sound, but the velvet quiet remained undisturbed by everything but the gentle words. "Listen to me, listen. You will not heal if you fight me so. Let yourself go."  
  
His stomach lurched sickeningly. He felt guilty, dirty, as if he had sullied something sacred, but the feeling was interspersed with intense curiosity. Letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, he saw that a half-open door farther down the hallway was leaking light and what he had reluctantly identified as Lord Elrond's voice. The woman was there. With him.  
  
He crept along the carpet until he reached the door and paused, his hand resting on the frame. Of course, Elrond could only be healing her. His words had indicated that much, but the tone in which he spoke them had been unsettlingly erotic. As if, instead of the most chaste of acts...  
  
Shaking his head, he rounded the door so as to be better able to see through the crack, and beheld what he had feared.   
The bathhouse was searingly hot and wreathed in steam, but he could just make out the woman standing naked in the water, her hair lying soaked and heavy down her back. She was sobbing without sound, her shoulders heaving, and Elrond was kneeling on the tiles before her, gripping her shoulders in both hands. His face was intent on hers as he spoke, sometimes raising a hand to trace her tears with one finger. She was thin, but not unhealthily so, each line and curve sculpted from luminous flesh. Elrond, strangely, was not looking at her nakedness, but at her lips as they formed the broken-off beginnings of words.  
  
"Speak to me," he said firmly, his fingers loosening their hold on her skin. "Tell me his name."  
  
A shriek tore itself out of her, and she threw her head back and let it spend itself through her open mouth. She arched against him, and he wrapped one arm around her back to hold her steady and brushed back the hair from her face. "Tell me of him, Gilraen," he said, and she shuddered at his command.  
  
She took hold of his wrists and jerked them away from her, her fingers clenched in claws. "Arathorn," she groaned, "why do you torture me? Why do you make me suffer?"  
  
"Your son," he said calmly. "Tell me his name."  
  
"He is not mine to give away," she sobbed, "never mine. Why do you make me leave him? I named him after you, I carried him through to life, I bore him bloody out of my womb, and yet you make me leave him here! Do you remember how it comes that he is alive, or is it the act of animals to love?"  
  
In answer, Elrond lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her wholly without inhibition or malice or even, strangely, any sign of passion. She responded slowly as he deepened the caress, twisting so that the steaming water lashed her legs. The watcher closed his eyes in silent admiration of Elrond's restraint as the latter disengaged himselfÑeven this far away, the sight of the wild beast inside her turned expectantly tame awakened the first stirrings of lust. Her damp mouth opened like a child seeking the mother's nipple, and he had to clench his hands into white-knuckled fists to keep from making a sound.  
  
She's mortal, he told himself sternly, and with a child. You have no business salivating over what you can never have.   
  
He looked back at Elrond. The lord of Imladris was stroking her face with two fingers, pausing at her cheek and forehead and eyelids and cracked lips. Watching his hands, any observer would have thought him searing with love for her, but his face was impassive. Slowly, she relaxed under his touch, her neck arching back and her eyes closing. "Arathorn," she whispered, "say my name. Please."  
  
"Gilraen," Elrond said softly. "If I want you to tell me his name, it is only so that when I hear it, I can remember who first spoke it to me."  
  
She tensed, and took his hand in both of hers, grinding down against it until his still face shuddered with the shade of a grimace. "Aragorn!" she screamed, spitting blood from her twisted lips. "Are you satisfied now? His name is Aragorn!"  
  
Elrond picked up a cloth, whispering words of sleep and contentment into her ear as he cleaned the sweat and grime from her skin. She breathed slowly, regularly, as he combed her hair with his fingers and smoothed balm into her lips and hands. The wildcat was gone. The watcher recognized his movements; he was healing her even as he washed away the memory of the night. When she woke it would be as if from a feverish sleep, and she would know only that she had dreamed of her husband.  
  
He gazed at them until Elrond had finished, taking her hand and leading her out of the water as he would a child. She stood still, moving only to lay her head on his chest as he fastened the buttons of her gown, docile as an infant. Elrond ran a fine-toothed comb through her magnificent dark hair a few times until she murmured for him to stop, and then he lifted her easily into his arms and settled her head on his shoulder, kissing her softly once more. Her head lolled against him as he raised his own and looked up and straight into the watcher's eyes.  
  
Elrond had known all alongÑknown that he was there. He was swamped with a wash of guilt, intertwined with sick fear. How could he have been such a fool? His breathing, footsteps, half-concealed gaspsÑall would have been as bright as Gondor's signal beacons to anyone with sharp enough ears. Why had he not done anything until now? Had he known who was watching him, or had he only just seen his face and realized?  
  
Elrond stared at him for a long moment before nodding his head in acknowledgment and turning away. The woman lay quiet, the harshness of her face dulled and softened by sleep. Adjusting her arms across her chest with all the care of a lover, he carried her across the room and through a small side door. The small snap of it closing was like a slap to the watching elf's senses, and he had to exert immense control not to run back to the bedroom and fling himself out of the window and onto the ground below. He would not run. Lord Elrond would be furious, but it would be the crowning act of disobedience to flee.  
  
After what had to have been an Age later, the hallway was still dark and empty but for the sound of his breathing, and Elrond still had not come.  
  
He would have to call on Aragorn. There was no other choice, but the thought of going to a mere Man and begging his assistance made his insides burn. He tried out the remaining options in his mind, but their former abundance boiled down to this one course, accompanied by the knowledge that he had only himself to blame for sinking this low. What had he done to deserve it? Had the Valar seen into his mind when he imagined taking Arwen with all the rage of years and years of thwarted desire?  
  
Oh, Gods no.  
  
He looked at the stone, the sun fracturing through its threaded depths. All he had to do was speak the words that would call the crow, and it would alight on his hand, rough claws digging into his flesh. The only thing that was stopping him was the nearness of humiliation. And, of course, Arwen. The memory of her lips on his shoulder as he moved inside her, murmuring his name wetly into the flesh, seared painfully to the fore. He could feel the pinpoints her nails made into his back, the waves after waves of shuddering climax that took hold of his body and tossed it cruelly from side to side. It took all his effort to remember that it had never happened. Only in his fevered dreams had she submitted to him.  
  
He opened his eyes and saw her again, but this time the vision was one of stark truth. The horse's sides were streaked with pale sweat, and her own face was pale and faded, like a gown left too long to the sun and rain. She was so near, too near to collapse. For once, he would have to lay aside his pride.  
  
He opened his mouth, the words welling out of some deep place he had neither the time nor the audacity to seek. The right phrases and intonations hung there, fruit on some enchanted tree, waiting to answer to his hand. And the bird had come. Its beady eyes fixed on his own, it listened as he instructed it. It was a heavy creature, warm and smelling of sun, and though he normally tread warily around crows, he felt that he could trust this one.   
  
It took only a moment to lash the elfstone firmly to the crow's scaly leg, and it took wing, pumping higher and higher until it was a mere slash on the sky. He slumped to the ground, scraping at the blood on his hands. It would not do to be coated in orc gore, now or any time. It took him an enormous effort of will to even care.  
  
After only a moment, he found himself standing and pacing towards where he knew the horse was standing. He wanted to see her, make sure she was still breathing, until the Man found her.   
  
The Man...  
  
He buried his face in his hands. Oh, Valar, what had he just done? What could have ever made him seek the aid of a filthy mortal, even if Elrond had taken him under his wing and loved him as he did his own sons? But of course, Elrond was adept at concealing his true emotions. He could have cared for the boy because of some mad promise to his mother. After all, who knew what had happened after he carried her out of the bathing room? She might not have been the only one under his bedsheets that night.  
  
Gods. His very thoughts sickened him. He slapped himself across the face with a stinging crack and an involuntary whimper of pain. The feeling was almost welcome; it helped him to stop thinking and simply be. When he started imagining Arwen's warm skin and impassioned kiss, he slapped himself again, but this time he far harder.  
  
...I hope you enjoyed this installment! Please review...  
  
Chapter Three: Aragorn finds himself oath-bound to guard a royal, haughty Arwen, who will do nothing in response to his jesting admiration of her, and he begins to hate her as much as she scorns him... 


	3. The Son of Gilraen

Beneath my Feet  
  
Author: Earanthiel  
  
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCs  
  
Genre: Drama/Romance  
  
Warning: Some violence, angst, innuendo-more PG-13 than R for the most part.  
  
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.  
  
Notes:  
  
brettley: Don't worry if this is confusing-it will be resolved! It will probably take a few chapters, though... : )  
  
lindajinglin: Estel was Aragorn's childhood name, given to him by Elrond ("hope"). Erestel is an elf, not a mortal, and about as far from Aragorn as it is possible to get. (OC...)  
  
all and sundry reviewers-you keep me writing, editing, and on my toes... thank you, and expect more chapters soon!  
  
Chapter Three: The Son of Gilraen  
  
My father has many secrets. Of course, so do we all. But Elrond Halfelven, Lord of Rivendell, is notorious for his silence, and his ability to communicate the urgency of forbidden knowledge to others. No tongues danced in the familiar pattern of gossip when Gilraen came to Imladris. Thus, no one seemed to think that I needed to know that my father had raised the child from infancy, trained him in arms, and given him an Elvish name. If I had known, I would perhaps have looked at the Ranger harder, and let my eyes pierce deeper than his weathered skin and cold, cold eyes.   
  
As soon as Aragorn saw the riderless horse slumped, still standing, in the road, he began to look around, taking in the finely woven bridle, the dried sweat streaking its flanks, its skewed saddle. To the side of the road, he could see that the long grass had been disturbed, as if by more than one clumsy person.  
  
He drew his long knife, concealing it underneath his worn cloak. A call for aid had reached him but last eve, carried on the wings of a crow. He had been raised among the elves, and trained at their warrior arts, so he was therefore privy to their signals and hidden signs. Different birds meant varying degrees of desperation, but the stone was a summons, to elf and mortal alike. A crow: urgent need.  
  
Perhaps the party of orcs he had come across the day before was at the root of this new trouble. He'd managed to kill one of them, but the rest had showed an uncharacteristic cowardly side and fled, confirming his suspicions that they were mere scouts. At the time, he'd thought there was no need to send word to Elrond, but now he saw that his decision could have caused more ill than good: the elves would wonder who had fought, and who had prevailed. He hadn't been able to warn his fellow Rangers yet, and now more of his time was being wasted.  
  
With a creeping feeling of unease, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and took the small bank with barely a stretch of his long legs. The wood was warm near the upper branches, but lower down the light filtered away, leaving the forest floor dim. Glancing up at the crow, he saw it alight upon a branch, head cocked and beady eyes bright. He looked around again, this time with more than his usual care, but the area around him was unmistakably empty.  
  
"Where are they?" he asked softly. "Lead me, friend."  
  
The crow let out a harsh caw and flapped its wings several times. Aragorn put his back against a stately elm and closed his eyes. His awareness centered on the slight sounds of movement, he tried to form a mental picture of the approaching elf. The crow, its work finished, let out another cry and pumped its way through the leaves and out of sight.  
  
Aragorn opened his eyes.  
  
The figure standing a handful of yards away was swaying on his feet, his hair tied in a loose, uneven knot and his clothing stained. Despite the beginnings of shadows under his eyes, he was standing upright, his hands clenched on two gleaming daggers. His cheeks were flushed, but he spoke with an intense clarity that was almost unsettling.  
  
"In the name of all the Gods, I thank you."  
  
Slightly thrown off, Aragorn inclined his head. "You will always have my aid."  
  
The elf paused, his face tight. "I was in perfect sincerity when I... when I sent the crow. The Lady Arwen of Rivendell is here... ill..." He took a breath. "I need you to get her back to Rivendell, and heal her, all without any mention of how you found her, where she was, or what befell her save that she saw the dead body of an orc and it unsettled her greatly."  
  
"A dead body? Is she so weak, that the sight of a foul orc can make her so gravely ill? Tell me the truth, master Elf. What happened to your Lady Arwen?"  
  
There was an undertone of derision in his tone, and it touched something deeply rooted in the Elf. "It had been mutilated. Horribly. She is not so much sick, my lord, as in shock. I cannot bring her back, and for this, I am forced to say that I need you."  
  
"Are you ill as well? Do you need aid?" Aragorn kept his voice light . "Perhaps you spent a sleepless night, and are too exhausted to care for the Lady yourself?"  
  
It was obvious what he meant, and the elf's lip curled. "Is this all your filthy mind seeks as explanation? You will care for my lady, and you will speak of this to no one. Give me back my token, and I will show you Arwen."  
  
"Perhaps, or perhaps not. I owe nothing to you or your kind," Aragorn spat. He could feel it-the urge to strike out, wound this arrogant elf with fists and well-placed words. "There is no bond between me and people like yours-people with such stony perfection you do not seem to have a soul. You can take your jewelry, and your secrets, but first tell me this. What is behind that mask? What have you done to your lady?"  
  
The elf flinched as if struck. His fingers were shaking at his sides. "I have done nothing," he replied, "and you would do well to remember it. If not for Lord Elrond, you would be dead now, with nothing to show for yourself but a grave marker! Your mother came begging to his doorstep in the night, and he took her in and healed her with all the power he possessed. You cannot deny me now."  
  
"If there was ever debt, it has long been repaid, and in more ways than you know," Aragorn said softly. "A cruel jest, to bind me to this mockery of servitude, when I could slaughter any of your warriors in the time it takes to draw a sword. You may keep your promises, since you are too cowardly to break them."  
  
The stone thudded to the ground with almost unnatural heaviness, scattering fragments of leaves. Aragorn was breathing hard, his hair straggling into his eyes. "Ravish her all you like," he murmured through tight lips, "and I wish you the joy of it."  
  
The elf watched him leave, smiling, and when he had vanished between the trees he threw back his head and roared, "Do not walk away from me, Aragorn!"  
  
He waited another moment, and started off to find the man.  
  
Aragorn was standing, his back stiff but head bowed, waiting. The elf circled him, the stone's circular silver edging biting into his palm. The sight of the proud face closed in defeat coupled with the memory of his mother's naked body straining against Elrond's own sent delicious shivers of pleasure all through him. Elrond had made sure the elves of Rivendell called him Estel, no more, but the elf had been there, that night, and watched Gilraen submit. No one else knew his name, and it was the one weapon that would pierce his tough hide.  
  
It had only just begun.  
  
"Your mother is a beautiful woman," he said slowly. "Once, I envied the man who had broken her to his hand. She was like a wild mare, but in submission, as tame as a virgin. I thought that a woman so lovely, so perfect, could never break her husband's trust."  
  
Aragorn's fingers twitched towards his sword, but the elf barked, "Hold! Hear me out, before you act rashly on her behalf. She does not deserve it. Though any woman that skilled between the sheets is worthy of some kind of commemoration, so I tell it to you. No one else knows. It all rests on me." He gave a harsh, coughing laugh. "And my ability to stay silent."  
  
He swung his bow off his shoulder and held it loosely, one hand reaching over his shoulder to the full quiver of arrows. In a fair fight, the man would rip him in two, but if he could carry the lie successfully, it would be only too easy. But if he drew the sword...  
  
The fear was thrumming through his blood, twisted with the heady taste of triumph. He drew out an arrow. "Gilraen told me everything," he said calmly. "She chose your name because of your father. Arathorn, she said, was a fine name, but she feared that you would grow too like him if you were given it. Your mother never wanted to leave you, but Arathorn overrode her in that regard. After Elrond healed her, she came to me."  
  
"You lie," Aragorn whispered. "She would never betray him for an elflet. You can give no proof that you defiled her, can you? If you can show me without a doubt that what you speak is the truth, then by all my gods and yours I will-"  
  
The cold point of an arrow grazed the side of his chin, traveling slowly downwards through the stubble to his throat. His lips drew back in disbelieving scorn, then closed on a barely audibly intake of breath as the point pierced the skin.  
  
The elf watched the blood roll painstakingly down his neck and dug in harder. Besides that first gasp, the man made no sound, even when the point was buried half an inch deep. The trail of blood was thick on his neck.  
  
"I can kill you like this," the elf said. "Not what you could call a glorious death, is it? But I warn you-I do not lie. Do as I bid you, and I will remove the arrow."  
  
"I would gladly die at the hands of a skilled warrior, who bested me fairly. But I will not suffer death at the hands of a liar and a coward." The arrow jerked, pressed harder. "If you had any honor, you would remove your arrow and draw your sword."  
  
He waited a moment, but the elf stayed silent.   
  
He had him now.  
  
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, not trying to keep the laugh out of his voice. "A mere dirty, tired mortal? Come. I long to fight with you. I long to pin you to the ground with a sword at your throat and hear you tell me the truth."  
  
With a flick of his wrist, the elf tore the arrow free. Before the man could reach for his sword, he circled to the front of him and deliberately secured the bow over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and Aragorn saw contempt, ill-concealed rage, and the smallest touch of fear.   
  
He palmed his dagger into one hand and raised it slightly, point ready to stab upward into the elf's belly. The movement was met with a lazy smile, and he twitched in revulsion. If only he could lay aside his doubts, it would be an easy slaughter. But even as he imagined the elf's blood streaming in a constant warm flood from his stomach down his sides and into the dirt, he saw his mother pinned underneath that same sculpted flesh, moaning in desire as he befouled her body. He couldn't kill.  
  
Yet.  
  
"You may not remember many things about Gilraen," the elf said, as if reading his mind, "but you must have seen the marque on her chest, above her breasts. A circle, twined around with thorny vines, all the way to the center, where there was a strange tree. It was not tall, yet it seemed like the symbol of a queen."  
  
Aragorn raised his head slowly, and he met the elf's triumphant eyes. Everything seemed sharpened by despair, the trees more green, the air thin and cool. Only someone who had bedded Gilraen could have known about the marque-or her infant child. He remembered her singing to him as he fed:  
  
"Leaves of green will fade and die, now  
Autumn's chill will sweep them clear  
Little birds will up and fly, now  
While I lie beside you here  
But one tree will ne'er be broken  
And one heart will e'er be true  
'Til the King is new awoken  
I will sit and sing to you."  
  
"Fade and die," he said suddenly, making the elf twitch. "Even those who claim immortality can be killed." His hand darted out, closing around the fair skin, and he lifted the emaciated body a foot from the ground and forced it backwards into the rough bark of the oak behind him. He raised the dagger, tracing a slow line from the elf's delicate eartip down to the hollow of his throat. He could feel him shudder slightly as the point caught on his skin. "Where is the lady?" he gritted through clenched teeth. "Tell me!"  
  
The elf's hand stirred at his side, but he held it there. If he showed this brute where to find Arwen, he would most likely kill her where she lay. The scene he had laid so carefully out in his mind was shattering, and he was afraid of it. There was nothing to stop this man from slaughtering him, and the thought was horrifying. He had always thought of himself as truly immortal, with his life laid out clear and shining like a carpet of crystal, and now-  
  
"If you die, I will still find her." Aragorn's voice was shaking with rage. "And it will be all the more painful for her when I do. There are more painful ways of death than by the sword, elf, though most of them only exist in the darkest corners of your mind. Show her to me. Now!"  
  
The dagger dug into the flesh, not deep enough to draw blood, but all the sharper for the fact. Aragorn could feel the impatience welling up behind his hand. This foolish waiting was only making his lust for vengeance harder. He would be happy to torture this idiot elf to death, to use Elrond's daughter to manipulate him, to exploit her innocence and his love-  
  
He hated this side of himself. It was like a living, malicious beast that waited, quiescent, until his guard was down, and then attacked with overwhelming force. When he fought, it battled beside him, and every time he killed it dug its claws in a little harder. It isolated him, tortured him like he could imagine doing to the elf, and the thought stayed his hand before it pressed harder.   
  
He had numerous oaths standing in his way, and he would destroy them all in a moment if he followed the maddening desire, and if he refused to answer the call for aid.  
  
"I cannot kill you without being at best made outcast, and most likely killed before that, if I cannot escape," he said with effort. "The Rangers have codes of law, even as you do. I also cannot harm your lady. If she is truly Elrond's daughter, I will have both my people and yours after my blood." He laughed harshly and let go his hold. The elf began to fall, but caught himself on one knee and pushed himself off the ground with explosive force. His eyes were boiling with white-hot humiliation.  
  
"West of here, not far," he said, his voice shaking. "And on my word as a warrior, if you do anything, anything-"  
  
"If we are to swear by skill with weapons, then," Aragorn replied, cutting him off, "then on my word as a Ranger I will do nothing..." Impossibly, one corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a lopsided grin. "... to her. But as for those who violate honor, attempt to wound me, and order me about like a dog, I will hold to my own laws."  
  
Before the elf could move, Aragorn grasped one of his arms and wrenched it up and around, pinning it against his back. He felt the Ranger's hot breath against his ear for a wretched moment before a fist exploded into his jaw, stunning him. He stumbled to his knees in the dirt, fighting to open his mouth, to breath-  
  
"You are naive," Aragorn murmured, "but you will learn."  
  
The elf felt a booted foot connect with his spine, throwing him forward onto his chest. His mouth smashed into the ground, lips tearing on the rough dirt. He spat blood, trying to get to his feet, but it suddenly felt so much better to let himself fall...  
  
Arwen reveled in the sensation of waking. She spent a wretched moment trying to figure out where she'd gone to sleep the night before, but an explanation was hovering just out of reach, and it was easy work to catch it. It couldn't be Rivendell-it was too quiet. The only sounds were a few intrepid birds and the deep, masculine breathing of someone lying a few feet away.  
  
She lay there for a moment, savoring the quiet that came just after dawn. She must have spent the night outside, then. That accounted for the calm, the birds, and the sharp bite of the air, but not for the man who was lying beside her.  
  
A thrill ran through her at the thought, but underneath it was a stirring of fear. Valar, why didn't she know...  
  
Then came the name. She smiled, a pure grin of bashful pleasure, and rolled onto her side, repeating it over and over in her head until she could hardly bear to keep silent. But she must let him sleep. Curling her head into her chest and pressing her lips into her fingertips, she whispered, "Rumil..."  
  
She only wished she could remember what had passed in more detail. The thought brought a hot flush to her cheeks, as did the resulting images. Despite her embarrassment, the wide grin returned. Was she presuming far too much, or-  
  
Still reluctant to open her eyes, she bit her lip, wishing he would wake. At the sight of his face, perhaps...  
  
A soft rustling interrupted her thoughts, and she stiffened. Despite all of her half-formed dreams, she was afraid, afraid of seeing him and realizing that she'd been wrong. It seemed, suddenly, all the more likely that they'd left Lothlorien as mere companions, and that she would wake to his laughing sarcasm and effortless charm as she had for days and...  
  
Days...  
  
No.  
  
There were other memories, that didn't fit at all. The brush of his lips across her cheek, his sudden smile as he helped her astride her horse, the slap to its rump that sent it careening out of Lothlorien with her clinging frantically to its back. Elrond, smiling-Galadriel, throwing off her cloak-the horse-the orc-  
  
She thrust herself up, blinking at the onslaught of sunlight, reaching frantically around her with shaking fingers. Where was her sword? Oh, Valar, her bow was nowhere within reach, and her pack was gone as well-  
  
Another small noise, to her right, froze her grasping hand, and the full horror of the situation struck. She was in the forest off Rivendell, Valar knew where, weaponless (and hopelessly inept even if she had them) and alone save for a man who seemed to be in the process of walking leisurely towards her.  
  
Gods.  
  
She whirled towards the sound, throwing the blankets off her feet and struggling painfully to her feet. Her body, accustomed to sleeping buried in lush, soft blankets and pillows, shrieked its protests to any and all sudden movement. It was the feeling of that first morning in the wilds multiplied a thousandfold, and it was immobilizing. Pushing her hair out of her face with a soft groan and reaching down to straighten her clothing, she saw the reason for the other source of her complete and utter discomfort. She was wearing only a thin chemise.  
  
Looking up in shock, she met Aragorn's eyes.  
  
He was standing directly in front of her, his mouth curling in a knowing smile. For the second time that day, her cheeks stained a deep red, and she found herself unable to meet his eyes for more than a moment before glancing away. Acutely aware of the insubstantial nature of the chemise, she reached quickly down for the blanket at her feet, only to see it lifted away.  
  
The man deftly folding the blanket and laying it behind him was tall, so very much so that Arwen, who had always considered herself as fairly towering, had to tilt her head slightly to see his face. As she did so, the thought that he would be able to bend her backwards quite nicely to kiss her flitted into her head, fought a quick, decisive battle with embarrassment, confusion, and rage, and lost spectacularly. How could she even consider such a thing, with this-this-  
  
Then she looked, really looked, at his face. His hair was a deep, loam-brown and fell in unruly waves to his shoulders, striking what would have been an agreeable chord with his lighter, hazel eyes in an elf. Then, it would have been uniquely handsome, but in this man it was set against a face lined with care and beaten a strange, albeit rich color by the sun. She looked down at her own hands, white and smooth as honey, and up at his. They were dark, scarred-one nail was splitting in half, and his knuckles were reddened as if from recent use. He was wearing a simple tunic and breeches, softened from long use, and there was a small dagger slung round one hip.  
  
She glanced up, slowly, and saw a faint spark of amusement in his eyes as he looked at her. His gaze lowered, taking in her barely clad body, from her breasts, nipples taut with cold, to her thighs, feet, and slowly back up. Arwen found she was shaking with anger.   
  
"Who," she said slowly, "who in the name of Morgoth are you?"  
  
"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, my lady Arwen," he said with a bow. "Your servant."  
  
"That answers nothing," she said, stepping around him and reaching for the blanket. "It is only a name. You will explain yourself, and you will give me back my sword and horse. Now."  
  
"I am a Ranger," he said, matching her imperial tone with his cool one, "the greatest fighters west of the Misty Mountains, and that includes your elves. If you think you could take me on barehanded, I would have to punish you, and I think that you would not enjoy that very much. I will give you back your pack, but never your sword, lest you kill me in my sleep."   
  
He laughed and handed her the blanket, and she snatched it, hoping to cut off his perusal of her figure. His fingers brushed along the back of her hand and caught, so briefly, on her own. She snapped her head up to look at him, but his face was impassive. Or was that a glimmer, beyond those cool eyes, of laughter?  
  
Instead of providing reassurance, the idea incensed her, and she snatched her hand away. Even with the blanket held over her body, it felt as if she was still nearly naked. "By all the gods!" she shouted, "will you not tell me what is going on? I wake in the company of some dirty, foul-smelling mortal who boasts and brags, and he will say nothing but nonsen-"  
  
"Perhaps," he said, cutting her off, "I may ask you a question first. Such as: how is it that you come to be here, and who is that insolent elf that was with you?"  
  
Arwen wrapped the blanket around her shoulders without looking at him, clutching it with one hand at her hip and the other arm held across her breasts. He, however, didn't seem to notice her attempt at a shield. "I know of no other," she said sharply. "I was alone."  
  
"Then how is it," he replied, "that I am under oath to see you to Rivendell, leave you at the gates, and tell anyone who cares to ask that you saw an orc and you were frightened?"  
  
Arwen was employing every effort to hold on to her indignation and anger, but they were slowly slipping into confusion. Ever since Rivendell, she had seen no one, and now there was a man, a mortal, claiming to be sworn to protect her. And sworn, no less, by an elf. An elf who had seen everything.  
  
"Hold!" she cried, "wait! Was he auburn, reddish-haired, shorter than me by a head or so-"  
  
"No," Aragorn said, shattering her eager hope, "he was tall, fair. Listen to me," he murmured, stepping closer and placing his hands on her shoulders, "if you are lying, I will find out. Do you know who he was?"  
  
"Tall, fair," she said wildly, "there are so many that fit that description! I know of no elves in these wilds besides myself and the patrols-was he wearing dark green, with a bow inlaid with ebony?" Aragorn was shaking his head. "Describe him to-"  
  
"Brown eyes," Aragorn said, still so close to her that his hip touched her thigh. The smell of him was intoxicating: smoke, sweat and spice. He moved even closer, and Arwen took a faltering step back, tripped on a tree root, and almost fell. "Unusual with light hair, is it not? And, oddly, those eyes... they were flecked with deepest gold, if you looked deep enough, but I can't imagine you would ever have gotten so close..."  
  
But then, she had.  
  
"No," she said softly, "NO! You liar, you bastard, tell me the truth! He's not following me, he can't, please, please, no-"  
  
Moved by inexplicable impulse, he pinned her arms to her sides and slid the blanket from her heaving shoulders, drawing her to his chest and laying her head against him. She brought her hands up, trying to push him away, but he folded her wrists into one powerful hand and held her there. At first she fought him, huge sobs tearing out of her throat, and he wrapped his arm harder around her until she stopped moving.  
  
Arwen imagined it was Rumil holding her, and managed to quiet her grief, wrapping one arm around his back and pressing her face blindly into his tunic. It was as if all she had ever dreamt of, longed for-it had turned against her and was spearing her heart. Unconscious of everything but the great aching pain and the warmth of Aragorn's body beneath her hands, she moaned and twined her fingers around his own. His hand was unexpectedly gentle, as was his whisper, soft and throaty in her ear. "He's not badly hurt. I expect you'll find him waiting for you."  
  
She froze. He's not badly hurt... A wave of horror rolled through her. She was letting this man comfort her, this knell of doom, this mortal. No matter his likely great age, his filthy state-he had attacked-wounded-  
  
Aragorn made a startled noise as she grasped his hand and thrust it away from her body, but let her go. She took a huge breath, less of anger than relief-if he'd tried to hold her back, she would never have been able to extract herself. Her heart hammering so hard in her chest she could barely speak, she shouted, "What have you done?"  
  
His brow creased in confusion, but she opened her mouth again, aware only of the intense tide building in her chest and forcing her lips to move. The courage was a welcome feeling: it was as if a new weapon had been pressed into her hand.  
  
"You dare to act as if you don't know what I say! How could you even think do this? I demand you give me back my things and tell me where you left him, and do it now. Now!"  
  
Infuriatingly, Aragorn smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "And what gives you the right to take control of me?"  
  
"I am Elrond's daughter!" she shouted, reaching down and wrapping the blanket around her again with impatient, jerky movements. "If I can order even the patrols to obey me, then I can undoubtedly command you!"  
  
There was a definite note of contempt in her voice, and once again Aragorn rose to the bait. This time, however, there was a voice behind it warning him that the best way to destroy the self-satisfied princess in this elf was indifference.  
  
"Have you considered," he said lightly, "that I am not of your people, and therefore not troubled by your notions of rank and obedience?"  
  
For a moment Arwen was at a loss, but she rallied herself with what grace she could muster and shot back, "How is it, then, that you are under oath to protect me?"  
  
"There are certain barriers that must be crossed, sometimes," he replied easily. It took all he had not to show what he was feeling. He had to commend her, he thought, for being able to affect him so deeply with a few well-chosen words. It had been a long time since a woman had treated him this way, and that time, the end result had been as painful as it was lustfully satisfying.  
  
"And what, pray, are those?"   
  
"Even if I am not of your kind, I must still answer to an urgent call for aid, and this was what your gallant savior sent to me," he said. "He told me you had been taken ill by the sight of an orc, and that I was to-"  
  
"I know what he said," she replied coldly. "There is no reason to repeat yourself. My question for you is: what kind of answer to a desperate call is your sword?"  
  
"I have my honor," he replied, "and when it is slighted, I am breaking no codes of conduct in defending it."  
  
"What?" she cried, caught completely off guard. "W-your-"  
  
"The elf you seem to be so intent on defending decided to put me beneath him, just as you are doing now. He tried to persuade me to help you by force, and I turned his hand back."  
  
"Turned...?"  
  
"Showed him exactly what superior power can do, in this instance. Usually, it would mean I took my just revenge."  
  
He expected her to bristle at the insult, and was inwardly looking forward to the opportunity to challenge her again, but she merely inclined her head and turned an extremely stiff back.  
  
After a somewhat meager meal, made distinctly uncomfortable by Arwen's unyielding silence and frigid glare, Aragorn picked up his sword and left to find a suitable place to practice. He would have been already finished in the usual course of things, but his encounter with Arwen had taken up more time that he'd expected.  
  
Perhaps it was because he'd slept late, as well. He'd tried to rise at dawn, but his limbs, not to mention his brain, had been heavy and unwilling to function. After a glance at the sleeping Arwen, he'd fallen back into contented sleep. She'd looked so peaceful and lovely, with those full lips parted and her thick black hair setting off her flushed cheeks...  
  
Once awake, it was a different matter entirely.  
  
He went through the sword forms without thinking, trying to remember everything she'd said. For an impetuous, spoiled brat, she knew how to hold up her end of an argument, he'd give her that much. She also looked extremely beautiful when put out. He grinned: "put out" was hardly a strong enough word. What really bothered him was not her impertinence, but the niggling suspicion that he'd started the argument in the first place. She'd looked so innocent, with that half smile on her face as she dreamed, that he'd assumed she wouldn't mind a jest or two.   
  
Now he'd effectively ruined any chances he'd had for a normal-dare he say pleasant-ride back to Rivendell, and seriously endangered his relations with the elvish community at large.  
  
And then there was that ethereal quality about her that made him feel both aroused and infuriated, wanting to throw her down and take her while ripping her swan-white throat out...  
  
Groaning in frustration, he swung his sword into a nearby tree. It was immensely satisfying. With a small nod to the entity he was attacking, he ripped the blade free with a spray of sap-laden wood and left the clearing, fully intending to discipline Arwen to within an inch of her life.   
  
It was easy work to find her pack and clothes, but a different story to get them down from the tree he'd hung them in. Obviously, he'd climbed to do it, and she had no idea how to manage with the blanket. Even tying it at her neck in a parody of a cloak only covered her rear, and she did not want him staring at her breasts again. The fabric was so sheer that she could see every contour of her naked body underneath it.  
  
All right, she told herself, setting a foot on the lowest branch and pulling herself up, he's not here, and he shouldn't be coming back soon anyhow. You have just enough time to get your things, untie Faon, and leave. Rivendell's not far, and Erestel will be-  
  
To mask her sudden panic, she took hold of the next branch and began to climb, unconsciously adjusting the movement of her hips and hands to accommodate the limbs to either side. The bark was rough against her hands, and her body was lithe and weightless, beautiful. The ground was so far away, and so was her fear and doubt and humiliation, all withering and fading in the sunlight.  
  
Beautiful.  
  
She reached the limb where her clothes and pack were hanging and slung them both over one shoulder. The blanket was scratching against her shoulders and hampering the sunlight on her skin, so she untied it and let it fall. The brief warning that Aragorn should be returning soon invaded her bubble of bliss, but she knew that even if he did, she didn't have it in herself to care.  
  
She'd just secured her overtunic and was opening her pack to check the contents when a voice behind her made her whirl and drop it. Aragorn was standing a few feet away, one hand placed lightly on the trunk of a tree. His eyes were fixed on hers, and they were far from pleased.  
  
"You didn't think I would actually wear that moldy blanket!" she snapped.  
  
He glanced at her again as if he hadn't noticed she was clothed and said, "I expected you to find them. You did well."  
  
"Why the praise?" she said. "You hid them, and I took them back. You should be punishing me."  
  
"Arwen," he said, slowly, dangerously, "is that what you really want?"  
  
She swallowed and fixed her eyes somewhere on his chest. "I want you to give me the rest of my things, which I note are missing, and leave. You can do nothing to help me here."  
  
"Ah, but you forget," he replied, walking past her and dousing the dying embers of the fire, "I am oath-bound. Which brings up the question I have wanted to ask you ever since I saw your lovely face: what happened here?"  
  
"W-what do you mean?" she stammered.  
  
"You know perfectly well. Why are you here, and who was that damned elf?"  
  
This time she knew she'd gone too far. His face was veiled, but the sharp bite of his voice was enough by far. "There was an elf who wanted me as his lover," she said quickly, "and I... had to much wine, and led him to believe I would. I had to leave, just for a while, visit Cirdan, perhaps-" She realized she was babbling and shut up. "As to the... other... I had no idea he was following me, and I still do not know who he was."  
  
She looked away swiftly so that he could not see the lie in her face, but all he said was, "Is it true, the tale of the orc?"  
  
"I was weak," she said, instinctively looking up at him to push away the memories, "and I am ashamed of that weakness. It will not happen again."  
  
"I killed that orc," he said after a pause. "It-"  
  
"Why?" she said sharply, trying to cover up the waves of sickness. "It was already dead-why did you have to do it?"  
  
"What?" he said, stepping closer with his hand lifted. "What are you saying?"  
  
She slapped his fingers away. There was a great crying in her ears, like eagles keening, and she shouted and shouted to overcome it, "You mutilated it! By the Valar, I hardly knew it was an orc! I will not let you-do not come near me!"   
  
Disregarding her rage, he said softly, "I killed the orc in all haste and left it in the middle of the road with a stab wound to the heart. Nothing more. If anyone mutilated it, it must have been the one who followed you-the one on whose orders I am here."  
  
In the ensuing silence, he loosed Faon's tether, secured his bedroll to his own pack, and placed hers in her unyielding arms. "Secure it well," he said, "we have a long ways to go." And, slapping Faon's rump to send her off through the trees, he set out in the opposite direction, sword swinging at his side.  
  
Chapter Four: Aragorn is revealed as more of an enigma than ever, Arwen conceives a new plan for revenge, battles, angst, and ancient lays abound, and absolutely nothing is resolved...  
  
Yet. 


	4. Poetry and Pain

Beneath my Feet  
  
Author: Earanthiel  
  
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCS  
  
Genre: Drama/Romance  
  
Warning: None needed this time  
  
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.  
  
Note: Tolkien says that elves drift in a open-eyed reverie when mortals sleep (to be poetic), but I took Middle-Earth into my own hands once again and assumed that they could sleep as well. I need dreams for my fics, especially this one!  
  
Chapter Four: Poetry and Pain  
  
Those next days were difficult, but in them I found something I never would have had the courage to see: that even when your mind rises up against your heart, it can be beaten back down. I fought many battles with what I thought I knew and what I felt.  
  
Why did I loathe him like I did? Was it that I saw he was beneath me, and yet guarding me, or was it the mere fact of his mortality? Was is his jests, his indifference, and his sudden flashes of rage? Or was it, in fact, the opposite of all those things...  
  
When Arwen had gotten over the ignoble dismissal of her horse, heard his explanation, and started after him with her mouth set in a tight line and her fists clenched-it wasn't all that horrid, really. True, she was sullen, disagreeable, and still acted like she was above him in every way possible, but her silence was much better than her arguments.  
  
At least she was intelligent. Aragorn had told her that he'd seen a scouting party of orcs on his way to her and that he had to warn the Rangers, and she had accepted it without comment, nodding when he explained that they couldn't ride through the kind of forest they would be traveling. And all the time, not a word.  
  
Of course, he thought, as they began another day of the same relentless quiet, it would be even better if she would drop her grudge and be more... more responsive. If she was trying to annoy him by pointedly not saying a word, it was working far better than anything else she could have done. It seemed that the discovery of her mad friend's attack on the orc-it was the only possible explanation-had humbled her, but it hadn't diminished her pride.  
  
Pride. If he admitted it, it would tear him to pieces, but her attitude of automatic, almost unaware superiority was wearing him down. It was slow, but every time she looked at him with those scornful eyes, her mouth set it the barest curl of contempt, it made him want to take a supple stick and whip her within an inch of her life. The animal within him, baring its teeth, yawning and stretching in readiness to stir again.  
  
Before, he'd thought they would have an easy time of this-conversation, perhaps a kiss or two. From the first, those perfect lips had been begging for it, but she seemed completely unaware of herself. She was beautiful, he'd give her that. It was probably a good thing she wasn't trying to arouse him, otherwise he'd have to throw honor to the wind.  
  
There was the familiar boulder-the gorge was close, and he felt the soft thrill inside him at the thought. "We approach the camp soon," he said. "There's climbing to do-I hope your boots can stand it."  
  
No answer. He hadn't expected one.  
  
He looked back at her and saw her stop, hoist her pack up around her shoulders, and continue, a small frown on her face. Her hair was coming loose from the knot at the nape of her neck and trailing over her shoulders and chest. "You have the straps too loose," he said shortly, walking over to her and tightening them for her. "You will strain your shoulders."  
  
She looked up at him, her eyes straying over his face, and he stood still under her scrutiny. When she looked away, it wasn't without a glance back up, and he wondered what she was thinking. Feeling.  
  
"We have to climb into the bottom of the gorge and walk a mile," he told her, turning back to the little-used path. It had appeared a few hours back and continued its thready way through the trees to the drop, slicing downwards so suddenly it could catch any naive traveler completely unawares. "They'll lower ladders for us from the top. Do you think you'll make it down?"  
  
She didn't answer, and he looked back with the beginnings of annoyance to see a small, knowing smile on her face. He raised his eyebrows, startled, and she said, "If you mean, do I fear, then no."  
  
"You've climbed before, then?"  
  
She inclined her head in agreement and began walking again.   
  
Gone.  
  
When Aragorn stopped, lifting a hand to indicate that she should do the same, Arwen ignored him and pushed aside a rough bush to stand at his side. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to speak, but she looked in the decided other direction, and with an undisguised sigh he threw up his hands. He looked so ridiculous, frozen in the gesture Rumil always used when she did something uncalled for, that she had to bite down cruelly on her lip to keep from laughing.  
  
"You truly think you can do this, then?" he asked, and saw her with the same secret smile on her face. Oddly, it reassured him. If she was going to act so wise and all-knowing, she would take the consequences.  
  
Aragorn produced a rope from his pack and lashed it to a tree a few feet back from the sudden edge. "I will go before you, my lady," he said. "In case you lose your hold."  
  
Before she could try and stop him, he crouched down and placed his feet on the first well-known hold. She could tell that he knew the way, his body falling into the familiar pattern of long practice. Well, she thought, it only heightened the challenge.  
  
As soon as her own foot touched the rock, she knew. Trying to force down overconfidence, she slid her other leg down until she found a firm hold and wrapped her hand around the warm stone. If Aragorn could do it, she could as well. For a moment, her first foot slipped and lost its hold, and she bit back a terrified scream. She could hold herself up by her hands until the hanging foot found the rock face again, there was no need to panic-  
  
A hand touched her dangling ankle, guiding it gently to the left and placing it on the next hold. Her breath escaped her lungs in a whirling gasp as she relaxed and pulled her booted foot out of his hold, and she heard Aragorn's voice below her, "It's not far. Look down."  
  
"I-" she started, but his voice overlaid hers. "You'll never make it down before sunset if you can't see the next hold. Trust me on this at least."  
  
The lift of his voice was so self-assured, so arrogant, that she forced her head around before she could even consider the idea. Below her, the seemingly random tumble of rocks formed the walls of the gorge, with here and there a tree clinging to the side, wizened roots desperately seeking purchase. She followed their progress down the cliff, to the roaring river that had dried into a trickle, through sun-warmed rocks and down a twisted path that disappeared into the stone-scattered distance. It was so high, so precarious, that she felt her breath catch and struggle in her throat. Valar, she whispered, help me. It's another tree, only another tree...  
  
Summoning up the memory of the transcendent bliss, she was assailed with another, stronger memory. When Elrond retired to his room early, or with an important visitor, she would climb up the vines outside his bedroom window, tying her skirts about her waist to free her gangly, child's legs. Retracing her progress downwards had been harder for her, even then, but when she was with-  
  
No. No.  
  
Concentrating fully on blocking out the image, she found the next protrusion with her eyes and brought her foot down to it, shifting her weight to accommodate the change. The pack dragging at her shoulders, the dizzying height, the swirling terror of falling-they were a backdrop now, a distant hum like an insect outside a window. If she could fix her attention wholly on the challenge of the climb, she would forget his face.  
  
From the set of Aragorn's face, it was obvious that he was surprised, and she warmed with happiness. That veiled stare he gave was so satisfying, especially the reluctance of respect. Of course, he would have expected her to be afraid-comfort with height was rare among her kind. That would be why he hung her clothes in a tree, she realized with a breathy curse. She would defy his expectations to the very last one, and the bullying, bragging mortal would be replaced, no matter the cost. And Gods, would it be satisfying.  
  
She looked down, reveling in her small victory, and saw his head tilted up to hers. His face was devoid of any expression whatsoever, blank and yet oddly calculating, and it sent a dart of doubt into her glee. His muscular arms were outlined in the thin fabric of his shirt as he held the face of the rock, rippling as he looked away and shifted his grip on the rope. Many of his kind had used this path-she could where they had passed, where he wasn't even deigning to look. As she made her slow, liberating way down the cliff, she tried and failed to imagine the effort, the hours it had taken him to reach his strength and ability, and, reluctantly, how long it would take her. Her own arms were burning with the effort, her entire upper body stiff and painful-the nights spent sleeping on the ground combined with her current situation, and she was only halfway down the cliff.  
  
The strange thing, she thought as she paused, catching her breath with difficulty, was that he made her more aware of her body than any other elf she had ever known. With her companions, she couldn't have cared about her figure and features; when Rumil turned over her heart had been the first time she'd begun to worry about the shape of her breasts, the curl of her hair. Aragorn made her think about every area-her muscles, or lack of such, her height, her eyes. It was as if she was the ambassador of an entire race, and she must be perfect, or fail.  
  
Her hand, slick with sweat, slipped on the rock, and she began to fall. Her heart battling against her ribs, she fumbled for the rope, clinging to it so hard her knuckles went white. It was the second time she'd made a thoughtless mistake, and again it was because of her thoughts of Aragorn.  
  
Not far, she told herself. He had already reached the sand and was standing, watching her. His piercing stare made her agitated, and as she tried to continue downwards she slipped again, her foot sliding off the rock and jerking her body down to the next hold. Ridiculously, she felt tears welling in her eyes. To be made a complete fool of, with the Man watching, assessing her every movement...  
  
The same hatred surged up once more. Who was he, to make her feel so stupid and clumsy? He was only a hired guardian. If his behavior was any indication, life among the race of Men must be a curse indeed. But, of course, she would never have to experience such a horrible thing. Once she reached Imladris, she could forget him completely.  
  
Galvanized, she passed both hands over her tunic to dry them and continued on down the cliff, clearing her mind into a blissful blank. The holds were spaced in a fairly even pattern, and once she figured out how to adapt her body to them she could find her way down without thinking. The distance lessening and her confidence rising, she glanced back once at Aragorn and saw him reaching into his pack, his back to her.  
  
She jumped the last few feet and brushed her hands against her tunic, smoothed back her sweat-soaked hair, and took a deep breath. At the sound, Aragorn straightened up, a quizzical smile playing about his lips. "My lady?" he asked. "What is it you desire?"  
  
"Why?" she cried, "why do you do it? While I make myself look like an utter idiot, you look on like Morgoth at a torture!"  
  
"If you fall," he said coolly, "my life will be ended as well. If your father is devoted enough, he will rip me apart with his bare hands."  
  
"Do you expect me to fall straight onto your back, then?" she demanded.  
  
"By the end, you seemed skilled enough."  
  
"Perhaps there are other reasons," she said. "Your oath to protect me? No matter how your precious pride was hurt-I have done nothing to you. Do you think to take your revenge on me, because of what my people have done?"  
  
Infuriatingly, nothing in Aragorn's stance or face changed, and she watched him with no small apprehension. Her words seemed to have no effect, except for the smallest crinkling at the corners of his eyes, which made it look suspiciously like he was laughing. But no, that would have to mean-  
  
"Lady Arwen," he said formally, startling her, "since you seem to feel the need to exhaust yourself further with this useless shouting, you may climb the cliff again and bring my rope back to me. It is valuable, as such things go, and I would be grateful to have it back."  
  
For a moment, she was convinced she had misheard, and then the words began to sink in. Closing her gaping mouth in an effort to stall the inevitable truth, she said, "I believe I have not heard you correctly. Did you ask me to..."  
  
"Retrieve my rope, yes," he said. There was a definite note of mirth in his voice now. "I will not wait for you, as it makes you so uncomfortable. Follow the path west."  
  
Nodding to her, he turned as if to leave, swinging his pack up with effortless ease. Arwen's state of unreality had evaporated with these final words, replaced by an even stronger sense of refusal. She stepped in front of him, tipping her chin up to look him in the eye. "Do you think you can force me?" she shouted.  
  
"No, I cannot," he said casually, "but I can warn you of the orcs that are likely to be infiltrating the forest as we speak. If they see a rope hanging down a cliff, they will look more closely, and see that there is a path below. Then they will find the Ranger's camp, and I will certainly not take the blame for their slaughter. If you do not want that on your shoulders, pretty one, I would suggest you do as I bid you."  
  
Taking a step forward, he was confronted by Arwen once again, and this time there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. "My lord," she said, her mouth twitching, "I will gladly follow you to the ends of the earth and the heights of the sun. However, I can only do so if I am not completely exhausted. As I will not need this-" she threw her pack to the sand at his feet "-I would be obliged if you would take it for me. Now, if you will let me pass..."  
  
With the tiniest toss of her head, she stepped around him, placed her foot on the first available hold, and began to scale the cliff. Not before, he noted, flashing him a very mischievous smile.  
  
The Sentry confronted Aragorn halfway down the path, freshly polished sword brilliant in the sun, his face shadowed underneath a thick, dark cloak. Aragorn wearily gave him the correct words, hardly even glancing beneath the hood. The Sentry gave an ill-disguised snort that could have been a disbelieving laugh, and when Aragorn's only reaction was a cocked eyebrow, he pulled it from his head.  
  
The tired, defeated expression on Aragorn's face was instantly replaced by delighted recognition at the sight of his face, and he enfolded the Sentry in a rib-cracking embrace that left them both laughing. "Bane!" he shouted, shaking his head in disbelief. "It cannot be!"  
  
"Elrond's balls, it is so," Bane said, grinning at his friend, "and you will be pleased to learn that your advice did me some good, in the end. It seems that Sentry is the only position that I can succeed at; they would have placed me against Imion if I tried out for anything higher. You know how he is with a blade, and his hand-to-hand combat-Well," he went on with a slightly forced smile, "what makes you so exhausted? Deny me at your peril."  
  
"If you had an irritable member of the elvish royalty in tow, you would feel the same," he said, clapping Bane good-naturedly on his back. "But duty calls. There are orcs on the move," he told his companion, his face grave, "and the Rangers must be warned. All of them."  
  
"How-" Bane started, brow creased in confusion. "How can you know?"  
  
"There was a scouting party," he replied, "unusually large, and cowardly-they fled before I could kill more than one. They have new weapons, fresh orders, and something tells me that we are on the verge of a new kind of attack. It is only a feeling, but it is strong. Very strong."  
  
"Selaine will have my head to top her tent if I leave my post," Bane said doubtfully. "Can you not leave the elflet?"  
  
"How could you even remotely think that I want her with me?" he shouted, his temper fraying dangerously. "She is an accursed complication, and I would be glad to rid myself of her! If I could leave her in the forest to find her own way home, I would do it gladly, but I cannot break an oath. Do you want a lovely, arrogant, shapely, stubborn maiden saddled to you? Then by all means, speak!"  
  
He stopped speaking. Bane was staring at him as if he had sprouted an extra head. After a silent moment, in which he began to regret his outburst extremely, Bane began to laugh. He bent forward, abandoning all Sentry-like authority for unaltered mirth, grasping his knees with shaking fingers. Strange noises began to issue from his mouth as if he was trying to speak, and Aragorn watched, torn between amusement and annoyance, until he had pulled himself under control and straightened up to face him.  
  
"You truly expect me to believe you hate her this much?" he said, wiping away an errant tear of laughter. "What has she done to you, to twist your thoughts so? Only a very skilled maid could make you think you disliked her when you are so obviously interested. I must congratulate her when I see her, by all means."  
  
"You will do no such thing," Aragorn said. He was grappling with his insulted dignity, but it was slowly slipping away. "But let me tell you, my friend, if you had seen her as I did, you would not hesitate to praise her."  
  
"If you did such to her face," Bane said shrewdly, "I can imagine you will have soured her against you. Sometimes, Aragorn, I think you are a fool."  
  
"And I think you are drunk on promotion," Aragorn said with a grin. "Your head will split if you smile once more. If you are afraid Selaine will spoil your mood, I will go in your stead, but while we wait for Arwen, a round of sparring will most definitely not hurt you."  
  
"Against you? Likely it could. But I am tired of standing and waiting. Where is your elf, for want of a serviceable explanation?"  
  
"She took the cliff very well, and I sent her up for the rope."  
  
"You truly do love to dally with your life, don't you?" Bane said, shaking his head. "Have you considered what will happen to you if she dies?"  
  
"Worry not," Aragorn replied, "I have considered both my death and her own, and I know she will not fall."  
  
"Your confidence is beyond me," Bane said slowly, "but it reassures me without fail. One round, then?"  
  
In answer, Aragorn dropped both packs and drew his sword.  
  
Through her dazed, worn state, Arwen heard the distant clash and ring of blades, but her mind redirected it into the back with other small things of insignificance before she could consider what it might mean. Her arms had stopped their incessant trembling, but her sweat-drenched tunic clung to her back and breasts, and every so often her feet lost their hold in the soft sand. Her ankle was throbbing, a constant, pulsating pressure, but there was no emotion behind her weariness-only a state of suspended calm.  
  
When she had reached the top of the cliff, flung the rope down, and realized she could no longer use it, it had taken gentle hold. It was like a heightened state of fear, the perfection of terror, and it reenforced her strength and courage every time she slipped and lost her hold. Once, she had slid down the cliff face, her sweat-slick hands refusing to move, a shriek suspended on her lips, but the ledge below had broken her fall. It had taken her a long time, too long, to recover.  
  
Just the thought that there was no rope made it worse-nothing to break her fall, nothing to slice into her hands and reassure her that it was real. And so it went on, her control slipping, her strength ebbing away, but her will bolstered by the accursed calm. Until the end.  
  
That was the fall that had ended in the sand, sand that had seemed so soft and yielding to her feet before but that bent her leg underneath her and turned her ankle the wrong way. It was beating to the rhythm of her heart, a strong, relentless pain. No, no, no, no.  
  
The sound of metal on metal continued, growing louder and more insistent. Finally, she realized what was she was hearing, but it was too late to retrace her steps. She was standing directly in front of Aragorn and his opponent, who was holding his sword in one hand, his feet moving in an intricate pattern uncontrolled by and strangely fitted to the angle of his head and the easy sweep and parry of the blade. She had seen swordplay before; Rumil had attempted to instruct her so many times, but never like this.  
  
She never thought of the danger to him-the other, shorter than him by at least a head and dressed in similar clothes, had a look of intense concentration on his roughened features, but his eyes were infused with laughter. Every now and then, when the tip of Aragorn's sword darted past his guard, he nodded his head in recognition, and when he himself made a skillful pass his face broke out in a wolfish smile.   
  
"Do you think you can weary me with your dancing?" he cried, stepping back to avoid a carefully controlled sweep at his head. "In the end, strength will win any battle."  
  
"I disagree," Aragorn replied between clenched lips, "and this is why you would lose to Seliane. You may be strong, but she can slip past your sword, and easily. If the enemy were like her, you would be dead before you could even try to bear down on them."  
  
"But they are not," the other said, as he attacked, his sword meeting Aragorn's and sliding down with a screeching tear, "and orcs will never be swift. They can be subdued with force-"  
  
"You are getting too used to idiot opponents," Aragorn said with a barklike laugh. "Someday you will encounter someone of superior muscle, and find that your own arguments return to stab you in the back. I think I shall have to speed the coming of that day."  
  
As he spoke, his foot slipped in the sand, and he forced himself back up with a brief grimace of self-disgust. The other lunged, and Aragorn blocked the thrust with his usual ease, his shaggy head twisting to lock his eyes on his opponent's face. Some time in the next minute, Arwen felt her own spent state bow in deference to what she was witnessing; a silent testimony to his hold on her mind.  
  
I will be rid of you, she told him. Without words, it was less biting. She wished she could shout it. I will have my revenge.  
  
His foot had slid again, and this time it was a sharper miscalculation. His opponent's sword grazed his breast, tearing a slit in the cloth. "Ah," he said, quietly. His face was covered in a light sheen of sweat. "Not so quick, then, after all? Have thoughts of your maiden tied your mind?"  
  
Arwen drew in her breath with a hiss. It could only mean one thing-that he had spoken of her while she was gone. In the space of an instant, she had gone from slight hostility towards her warden's attacker to a potent desire to pick up a rock and fling it at Aragorn's head from behind. Ah, satisfaction.  
  
Once again, his opponent's pierced through Aragorn's guard, his sword touching the unshaved beginnings of a beard at his neck. Aragorn's eyes closed, his mouth set in dissatisfaction-  
  
-and he dropped, rolling to the side with the grace and agility of a cat. Before the other could do more than settle into a deeper stance, he was standing again, attacking from behind, his blade flashing and dipping like a crazed springtime swallow. Eyes, widening, a shout of insane triumph, cry-silver-soaring-  
  
The sword landed quivering in the sand a foot away from her, and with it, the perfect plan for revenge.  
  
Aragorn was thoroughly satisfied with the results of the match. It had felt perversely good to send Bane's sword spinning out of his hand, to see his friend's look of disbelief. It was one of his favorite ruses, and every so often he used it on a particularly difficult opponent-as Bane had proved to become. So much happened every time he was gone; many times he had seen a man he thought he knew transform, and not always for the better.  
  
The scrape of his sword against the soft stone was seductive, drawing him into its rhythm with its quiet whisper. It was one of the few things that remained unchanging, along with Selaine's irresistible, forbidden grace, his own ability to lose touch with himself after a fight, and the lift and swell of the Misty Mountains on the far distant horizon. He supposed he should add insufferable elf maidens to the list, but what exactly was consistent about them was yet to be explained. Arwen seemed to change tactics moment by moment, and the only one he had found agreeable so far was that impish, disarming grin she'd given him before beginning to climb.  
  
He glanced over at her and saw her talking with Bane, her head tilted to one side, hands moving in the air as if to illustrate her words. Taken aback, he looked again, and saw an attentive, almost caring look on the Sentry's face as he listening, absently cleaning his sword with a cloth. She was standing with her shoulders thrown defiantly back, but he could see she did it with effort. It was written in the way she seemed to wrench her attention back to the man speaking to her every time he paused, the tired curl of her fingertips. He knew fatigue, and she was only barely standing.  
  
Not for the first time since she'd picked up Bane's sword and presented it to him hilt-first with an elvish bow given only to the highest royalty, he wondered if he should have made her climb. She had shown extraordinary skill for the first time she'd attempted the cliff, and he figured it would do her no harm at all show her some of his power over her. Instead, it seemed that he had made a serious mistake.  
  
It surprised him how much it pained to admit that.  
  
Bane beckoned her closer to him, his lips moving quickly, and she took a step towards him. Aragorn was stabbed with guilt when he saw the way she held her foot, the toe of her boot barely touching the ground. Every inch of her screamed of pain. It could be broken-fractured-splintered-  
  
He was up and striding towards her before Bane could finish his sentence, his teeth clenched. What a little fool she was, to pretend she wasn't injured when every step she took was making it worse. Elrond had never exhibited this type of stubbornness-she was the most exceptional black sheep he'd ever seen...  
  
Reaching her, he took her upper arm in a firm grip and dragged her away from a startled Bane, who thankfully didn't protest. To his immense relief, all she did was stare for a moment before looking guiltily away. He spun her so that she faced away from Bane and murmured, "Do you know what I'm going to say?" It took him intense effort not to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she answered.  
  
She pulled out of his grip. Her face was pale, but her lips quirked. "No, my lord and-"  
  
"Yes," he said, disregarding her all-too-obvious sarcasm, "your master. Before you get yourself into any more trouble with that lovely mouth of yours, recall what happened the last time you opened it. Please," he said, flinging semblance to one side, "explain exactly what happened to you, and with as little attempts at insulting me as possible. If you can."  
  
"It's unfortunate you weren't there to see it," she said, with another courtly obeisance, but this time she had a small, self-deprecating smile on her lips. "Without the rope, I was an absolute wreck."  
  
"You fell."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And likely broke your ankle."  
  
"I'll have to leave such judgment to you, O healer of the unworthy."  
  
In spite of himself, he chuckled. "You are hardly undeserving of my attentions, gracious flower," he told hr, "and if you resist, I will have to subdue you by force."  
  
"To take advantage of a wounded maid!" she said sharply. Was that a wink that fluttered her eye shut, or chance? "Oh, to be so cold."  
  
"When chance presents itself, it is only a man asleep who will not take it up," he admonished sagely. "If you can walk..."  
  
"Who said that?" she asked as she followed him. I was not of the opinion that your people were of-were great scholars," she finished, with a attempt at jocularity.  
  
"The gasp of pain ruined that one," he said dryly, "but your surprise seemed genuine enough. I am wounded!" he cried. "It is not often my wisdom is disregarded!"  
  
"The sarcasm is dripping," she replied with a dismissive gesture. "Now, my gallant hero, will you heal me?"  
  
Deciding not to point out that it was the first close-to-civil request she'd made to him in three days, he removed the offending boot. Her ankle was grossly swollen, and he had so much difficulty trying to roll her breeches up to the knee that he had to draw out his dagger and slit the cloth. Her mouth opened, but she appeared to decide against speaking. He bit back a thankful sigh.  
  
Running the tips of his second and third fingers over her skin, he discerned with what limited skills he had that she had merely twisted it. There was the small possibility of a sprain, but the bone was intact, at least. Healing had never been a strong point of his, and Bane was even worse. He would have to wait for Imion, whose fighting skills just barely surpassed his ability to cleanse and mend. Just the thought made him bitter.  
  
"You'll survive," he said shortly. "Once we get back to the camp, they can care for you better than I."  
  
Realizing too late how sharp his voice had been, he looked up, prepared to apologize, and saw a veil drop over her face. It was shocking in its suddenness, filled with the depth and blackness of a dead man's eyes. She tilted her head back and sat up, her back ramrod straight. In the space of a moment, she had become the Lady Arwen again.  
  
Aragorn rubbed a pungent-smelling ointment into the ankle and bound it up tightly-rather, he reflected as she stalked away, too much so.  
  
Confusion. Anger. Disappointment, disgust, scorn. Arwen sighed. It was all she could do to keep on walking without trying one of the scores of scathing comments she had prepared, without trying to name the primary emotion sitting heavy in her heart. Besides, the only thing she could imagine doing to lessen any one of them was slapping Aragorn across the face. Satisfying. Deserved. Stinging, delightful, perfect.  
  
The truth was, she was going to have to be very careful. Bane had reacted very well to her attention, and she hoped the rest of Aragorn's kind and kin would oblige her so well. Excepting, naturally, Aragorn himself.  
  
She had let down her guard in the face of his jests and unexpected good humor, and it couldn't happen again. It had been, to put it frankly, totally unexpected, and not all that unpleasant, if she forgot his unwashed, dirty, dull, rude...  
  
What?  
  
She pulled surreptitiously at her tunic, trying to straighten out the wrinkles. The truth was, she wasn't all that fresh either, and she felt horrible. That was probably what Aragorn and Bane had held their quick, heated final exchange about: herself. It was enough having Aragorn centrally focused on her, without the stares of the entire mortal population of Arda thrown in as well!  
  
But then again, she was an elf. Everything from her milk-white skin to the delicate point of her ears was strange.  
  
She could probably attempt an accurate portrait of Aragorn's back and be satisfied with the results, she thought bitterly. From the gentle waves of his hair to the slash in the back of his left boot, she had memorized most of the pertinent details, and many of the useless ones as well. For what reason, she couldn't imagine-maybe because she'd spent most of three days staring at it. The breath she'd been holding escaped her lips in a long, exasperated sigh.  
  
Aragorn's relentless paces slowed, until he had stopped completely. She bit her lip. If she could have picked the worst thing to do at that point, she thought, it would have to have been that.  
  
Aragorn didn't speak until she came abreast of him and watched him for a few moments, trying to discern what was running through his head. His lips were knotted, eyes closed, but his hands were at his sides, instead of on his sword hilt. Struck by an irresistible urge, she said, "O Master, forgive my sins," pitching her voice to reverence and praying he wouldn't turn on her at the same time.  
  
"Elros," he said, "The Lay of Iluvatar. One of his finer works, if I may presume to judge."  
  
"You forget Tar-Minyatur, surely," she said, disbelieving. There was already a fully-formed argument bubbling to her lips. Unaware, she began to assume her time-honored debating posture, letting his words filter deep enough to process...  
  
Elros. The Lay of Iluvatar.  
  
All he gave in response to her wide-eyed gaping was a brief smile.  
  
Chapter Five: Old lovers are revealed (and slightly more than that), friendships are tentatively formed, and comfort fails to be given when it is needed the most. Ah, the hardships of lo- ah... life... 


	5. Healing

Beneath my Feet  
  
Author: Earanthiel  
  
Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond, other OFCs  
  
Genre: Drama/Romance  
  
Warning: Some fairly explicit sexuality in this installment  
  
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.  
  
Note: This side of Aragorn may be unexpected, but we all lose control sometimes... Don't worry, he has other aspects as well, and they are infinitely more... agreeable. If you take my meaning. !  
  
Note 2: Aragorn is descended from a long line of chieftains of the Dunedain, and he would have leadership instead of Selaine if he had not given it up, as will be explained later... so don't flame me on it please!  
  
Chapter Five: Healing  
  
It is difficult for me to speak of Celebrian, to think of her. In the retelling of every tale there are hidden things, and to set this one out in its fullest form is to experience it again. Every time in my life that I have spoken of her, it has begun with sadness, and ended with the greatest joy. This, in my mind, is her message to me: be strong, my daughter. Oh, strong.  
  
So that I could not feel her, I blocked her out. When I saw the orc, I remembered the events that led to her death. Even though she is yet alive, she is dead to me. But even when I wanted to remember, I forced myself away.  
  
Perhaps it is the same with every other story, that the teller feels and sees and tastes it all over again. But this one, of all the happenings of my life, is the most poignant, humiliating, and in the end, beautiful.  
  
Arwen was safely stationed in Imion's tent, pensively silent. The last time Aragorn had seen her, she'd been sitting on her cot, hands hanging limp on her knees. He'd given her something to think about while she was subjected to Imion's treatment, and hopefully she would take the hint.  
  
The Rangers' camp must be a shock compared to the elaborate grace of Rivendell. A large clearing, precariously near the ravine they had traveled the day before, scattered with tents, fire pits, and racks of weapons, armor, and various supplies. Selaine, as leader, had the most distinctive, spacious tent, and rest of the Rangers, Sentries, Watch and Scouts added small touches to distinguish their space from the morass. He preferred simplicity, but the herb-dyed ropes securing his tent poles to the ground were enough.  
  
Aragorn uncrossed his legs and lay back, trying to keep his eyes closed. The thick, rough fabric of the tent was hardly meant to block the sunlight, but it was efficient at diluting it, and the interior was pleasantly warm...  
  
His mind wandered.  
  
Come to think of it, Elros' works had been the ones that provoked the most idle speculation and heated arguments between him and the myriad other scholars of Elrond's house, during his years there. Even the Lord of Rivendell had disagreed with him about The Lay of Iluvatar, claiming it was rambling and ineffectual. Not such a black sheep, then, after all...  
  
Elves were adept at hiding their emotions, he knew. Elros, brother of Elrond, was long passed into Valinor, and to be able to denounce his longest work as useless must have taken great strength of will. Aragorn himself had never had cause to be so unfeeling, or to appear so, and the effort it must take to school your face impassive and cold at a breath was more than he could understand.  
  
Lulled by the sounds of muted activity a cloth's thickness away, he found his mouth thick with sleep, his limbs heavy, his eyes.  
  
There were fingers brushing his own. Not soft, but weathered, as if they had spent years clutching daggers and pulling back bowstrings. Gentle, caring, as if they knew what he needed to feel and were holding barely back.  
  
Aragorn's mind woke swiftly, leaping to instant awareness. His lips were thick, unwieldy, and he could barely open them to breath. Far from easing his weariness, the brief sleep he had been able to steal had only heightened it. But he knew who was sitting beside him.  
  
She seemed to understand, and ran her hands softly over his body until he opened his eyes.  
  
"Selaine," he said, still swimming up through sleep. "News does travel swiftly."  
  
The unspoken leader of the Rangers of the west loosed the tie around her burnished copper hair, letting it slide down over her shoulders and brush the contained swell of her breasts. She closed her eyes as if trying to remember her words, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He waited until she opened them, her lashes sweeping slowly upwards.  
  
"Why didn't you come to me?" she asked quietly. "You owe me a report, if nothing else." Her mouth twisted wryly. "Is it too much to presume you could have other motives?"  
  
"I was told that you were occupied. Did not Yves tell you my account?"  
  
"I would hear it again," she replied. "From your own lips."  
  
His hand found hers, holding it briefly before moving up to her hip. It was warm and hard beneath his fingers. "There is nought to tell. She will be home soon enough. In the meantime, Imion will care for her and I... I will care for myself."  
  
Selaine smiled. "Perhaps you will let me help you."  
  
He felt his loins stir at the provocative imagines her sultry voice produced, while memories of previous nights made their way to the fore. They had been lovers for years, fading between passion, desire, and simple lust every time they made love. This was the first time she had seduced him in broad daylight, susceptible to the eyes and whispers of the rest of the camp, but already the urges of the flesh were overriding worry.  
  
She leaned down and brushed her lips across his, moist and heavy with promise. He didn't respond. Seeing that he was unmoved by her chaste opening of the game, she sat up slowly and removed her tunic, dragging her fingers up her own body as she did so. Her breasts were luminous, gently rounded, with only a three-inch scar to mar the golden skin. She had never told him how she came by it, and he had never thought to ask.  
  
It took him a moment to realize the thoughts creeping into his mind at the sight of her naked body were only memories. The idea was a mild shock.  
  
Kissing him again, this time with no floodgates involved, she twined her fingers in his hair and tugged playfully. She was as tall as he was, and her body fitted perfectly with his own-each line, every curve. He growled deep in his throat, muffled by her mouth, and she undulated her hips against his, murmuring wordlessly in his ear.  
  
Gods, no. I won't let her. Not now, not here, not here...  
  
It was difficult to maneuver on the thin cot, but he managed to roll her onto her back and press himself against her. That one place where all of his arousal throbbed, from the swell of her breasts against his still-clothed chest to her thigh pushing into his own, was rubbing against her womanhood in time to his ragged breaths. She gasped with pleasure, her hands fumbling at his tunic. "Come," she whispered, "let go. They'll never know, not the elf, not anyone..."  
  
All the thoughts that had rushed out of his mind came flooding inexorably back, jumbled, tangled together  
  
do you love this woman? no. but what is that the answer to. do you think she will ever be more than an enchantress you thought the elves were such and now you have both at your doorstep which one which one which one will you choose  
  
"What is wrong, love?" she said huskily. Her lips were open, panting, her hands weak with desire. "Why do you not look at me?"  
  
disgusting  
  
authority debased a whore underneath you how can you ever take her commands if you know she begged to have you deep and deeper inside you how can you ever let her?  
  
He bent down and kissed her, a hungry meeting of teeth and tongue and sweat that left them both unsteady. He had his answer. It was nature, nothing more.  
  
Pushing himself off her, he stood up and placed her tunic in her hands. She sat up, confused, her eyes brimming with questions. Nipples taut, hair in disarray.  
  
"I cannot give you orders," he said, "but I will not take you willingly. I can only ask you to leave."  
  
"Still tired?" she inquired playfully. "Did you take another lover while you were gone?"  
  
Behind the words flowed a powerful undercurrent of anger, anger and jealously. Aragorn opened his mouth and roared inwardly, letting his frustration go. She had every right to suspect, no matter how wrong she was, and if she was furious, then she was within her boundaries. He smiled, trying to keep his voice light. "No lover," he replied. "Only you."  
  
"Then why do you reject me?"  
  
"I have been wandering coated in filth for days; you do not want me now."  
  
"You have had me on the edge of the battlefield before," she said, "like a beast. What is the difference now?"  
  
"Is is the law that I must submit to your wanton lust?" he asked sharply. "I was out on your orders. You cannot ask more of me than that."  
  
"I may do with you what I will."  
  
Selaine immediately knew she had said the wrong words. Aragorn stared at her, his eyes half-closed, teeth showing where his lips parted. If there was one thing she had always been afraid of doing, it was reminding him too sharply that she commanded him, that what she had just said was true.  
  
"All right," he said. His voice was low, intense. He extended his fingers and curled them inwards, a gesture of seduction and desire she could not refuse. "But do not forget that if I wished for the command of the Dunedain, I could take it back in moments."  
  
Instead of standing, she slowly removed her breeches, watching him as she did so. He showed no outward signs of arousal, but she knew that it was only a mask. Inwardly, and in choice areas not so, he wanted her.  
  
She smiled.  
  
He beckoned again. His mouth was thin. He wanted no games this time.  
  
Selaine stood and walked towards him, her hips swaying gently, drawing his eyes between them to her belly and lower, to the curl of copper hair concealing her womanhood. He made a soft sound, between animal and loving, and closed the distance between them, their lips meeting and burning as they touched. His tongue slipped past her teeth and she writhed, her hands desperately unclothing him and wandering over the hardness of his muscles, the softness at his throat and cheeks.  
  
He placed his hands on the curve of her buttocks, lifting her easily. She had been fighting longer than he had, and she was no gentle maiden; her skin rippled with concealed strength. If she wanted to, she could flip him over and practically rape him, but she knew what he wanted. The only sounds she made were of encouragement.  
  
He lowered her onto the bed and straddled her, her knees lifted on either side of his legs, one foot curled around his lower leg. He lowered his mouth to her breast, suckling at the nipple and the soft flesh around it, exploring every inch. All the while, one hand wandered lower, stimulating her until she opened her mouth, gasping with intense arousal. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and he covered her mouth with his hand as she groaned.  
  
"They can't hear," she said raggedly through his fingers by way of explanation. "Everyone..."  
  
"Quiet," he said harshly. "Don't speak."  
  
She opened her mouth, strangely afraid of him, but he covered it again until he felt her lips brush closed. His movements had changed from slow to urgent, almost angry. "Aragorn," she whispered, desperate, but he growled wordlessly and she stopped speaking.  
  
He traced her glistening nipple with his finger and she lay back, her eyes closed. Tremors passed through her as he spread her legs, his hands running from her womanhood down her thighs, calves, all the way to the trembling tips of her toes. Her hips lifted, straining, but he pushed her down. She was breathing painfully, her lungs constricted with lust. He grinned frighteningly as she bucked, trying to hasten the inevitable joining.  
  
"No," he said quietly. "Not yet."  
  
And he proceeded to pleasure her like he never had before.  
  
She might have seen it as tender, loving, gentle, if it had not been for the suppressed tension in his eyes and hands as they stroked and pulled and rubbed, leaving no area of skin untouched. From her nipples to her swollen lips, all the way to her forehead and the small of her back, he used his tongue and teeth and fingers in ways she never could have imagined. She was sweaty, shaking, gods, everything...  
  
She tensed, and he looked up from her belly, which he was trailing his lips breathily across. "What is it?" he asked. "Do I not please you?"  
  
She didn't answer, couldn't speak. He brought his mouth down to the meeting of her thighs, working with his mouth and fingers in a careful rhythm, making no movement to conceal her small noises as they threatened to build, letting her stifle her own cries. She only was able to do so by remembering the self-control he was exerting by only giving, and never letting her.  
  
Her teeth came down on her lips.  
  
"Answer me," he said, his voice deceptively light. "Is what I do displeasing?"  
  
She bit harder. He reared up on his knees, leaning down to kiss her full on the mouth, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.  
  
"Perhaps I have not done enough," he said, musing. "Shall I continue?"  
  
She was aching, throbbing, burning for him, sated and yet desperately unfulfilled. And as much as she did not want to give in, submit, let him laugh at her admission of agony, she knew he would continue until she said no.  
  
He moved provocatively against her hips, promising more to come, and still she did not speak. There were tears welling at the corners of her eyes, and he saw them and gave a low laugh.  
  
For a moment, she hated him.  
  
"Just answer," he told her, "say yes... or no. Two words, one choice."  
  
He kissed her again, so intensely that it stopped her breath. Nipping her tongue lightly, he drove into her mouth with his own, taking cruel, unending possession until it seemed she would perish from lack of air. She pushed him away, gulping great breaths, her lips moving in tandem with her heaving gasps.  
  
"What is it?" he asked. "Have you finally decided to answer?"  
  
"No," she said weakly, thrusting the words past her abating breaths, "no, no-"  
  
"Does that regard your decision, or the answer itself?" he asked wickedly, his eyes glistening with perverse pleasure. "I will ask you again. Are my actions displeasing to you?"  
  
"No," she said again, and he threw back his head, shaking with soundless laughter. She gripped his wrists in both hands, wrenching his head down, and saw that though his mouth curved in a smile, his eyes were cold. "Stop," she said furiously, "stop now. If you wish to torment me, I will stand and leave. If revenge was ever deserved, your honor is now fully engorged with it."  
  
"Leave?" he inquired, twisting out of her grip and pinning her hands above her head with one swift stroke. "I do not think you can."  
  
His phallus was positioned at her entry, ready to plunge inwards and finally fulfill the intense throbbing, but her legs were flat beneath him. He spread them once again with his knee and she bent them, thrusting her hips forward and up so that he could take her without trouble. Her eyes were closed as he watched, belly fluttering with her shallow breaths.  
  
"I so love to hear you speak," he said, perfectly still, "that I have one more question for you. Once again, it requires but a simple answer. Do you want me?"  
  
"Yes," she cried, drowned with the pain and shame. "Yes, I want you, I want you-"  
  
She would have spoken further, but he thrust his hips forward and buried himself inside that familiar deep warmth, pulling fractionally out and pushing inwards again, pulling out slightly more, thrusting to the unique, charged rhythm until his neck tensed, eyes closed, and this time it was she who muffled his guttural cries of release.  
  
It was a little while longer before she climaxed, and in the moments before she could feel him acutely, so deep that it seemed he would pierce her heart.  
  
Imion was mixing a salve for his latest patient, grinding the soft stone into the bowl in a slow, lazy rhythm. The tent was stifling with the door closed, but already the speculation around the new elf was staggering. She was feigning sleep in the closed-off partition, and doing it fairly well, but her breathing was irregular and her movements sudden and sharp to his practiced ear. She didn't want visitors, and he wasn't about to provide her with any.  
  
His ears picked up the footsteps as they approached the tent, and before the newcomer could hail he swung back the fabric door and secured it with a quick movement of his fingers. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he saw the distinct figure of his sister, Selaine, and inclined his head. "The Lady sleeps," he said. "If you would allow me a moment..."  
  
"I would speak with her," she said impatiently. "Now, Imion."  
  
"Her injury and exertions have tired her," he told Selaine calmly. "I will tell you when she wakes."  
  
"What exertion?" she demanded.  
  
"The cliff, for one. She took it twice."  
  
"Why in the name of Arda-?"  
  
"The rope," he said simply.  
  
What has she said told you?" Selaine asked after a moment. She seemed nonplussed, but he couldn't be sure. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glistened at the corners, as if with suppressed tears.  
  
"She is not given to words, and understandably so," he said.  
  
"Understandably? Has she bewitched you, too, brother?" Selaine said, setting her head to one side and giving him a long, calculating stare. "Is not Yves home?"  
  
The insult to his honor and his wife wasn't as barbed as usual; he hadn't seen his sister so angry for a long time. He was one of the only men in the camp that she would reveal her emotions to, and he was honored by her attention, even when it was such a mixed blessing. Knowing that a reply would only incense her, he watched her until she let out her breath in a burst and said, "You will warn me when she rises?"  
  
"Only if you are civil, sister," he told her, stepping back inside his tent. "I will not tolerate your jealousy under my roof."  
  
Instead of replying, she raised an eyebrow and turned on her heel to leave.  
  
Arwen stayed in Imion's tent for a day, drifting in and out of uneasy sleep. Twice, when she woke, she found herself clutching her pack with no idea why she was doing it, only that she had been urged to in sleep. Both times, she subsided back into the cot and let herself go to dreams.  
  
She only saw Aragorn a few times, and their conversations were at best cordial. The longest consisted of only a few sentences, which, she reflected, were deceptive in their simplicity. He had stopped her on the way to Imion's residence on the second day, weaponless and dressed casually. His hair was tied back against his neck, face still scattered with stubble.  
  
"I have had a temporary tent set up for you," he had said. "Beyond mine, at the edge of the forest. You will stay there until we depart for Rivendell. It should only be a matter of days."  
  
"Am I to lie there all that time?" she inquired indignantly. "Am I not allowed to go where I will?"  
  
"If you wish to blunder into others' tents and cause havoc, you will take the consequences," he replied. "I will not go so far as to call you my ward. The layout is simple, as you have no doubt deigned to notice, and you stand no chance of losing yourself if you stay within the boundaries. Beyond that, you are free to wander."  
  
"My thanks," she said with difficulty.  
  
"Any favor is yours," he told her, but there was a warning glint in his eyes. He might well, she thought, have added, "But 'ware which ones you ask."  
  
That was one order, though unspoken, that she could not bring herself to disobey.  
  
A few times, Imion's wife Yves visited, bringing one of her husband's remedies with her. She was a willowy, joyful woman with a brilliant white smile and an open, friendly manner that gradually eased Arwen's suspicions. At first, she spoke little to the other woman, accepting her treatments and salves without words, but every time she was trapped into answering a question or observing Yves' loving, playful manner with her husband, she found herself wondering. Remember, she told herself, remember what you have set out to do. Create an image of yourself that is agreeable to the rest of these mortal men and women, and set Aragorn up as a foolish boor. If they think he is treating you cruelly, it is better revenge than you can give him yourself.  
  
The tent was drab, and she had nothing to brighten it up save bundles of the small, white flowers she found growing around the camp. They cheered her, for no reason she could explain, and she tucked them into her hair and wound them into the fastenings of her cloak.  
  
The only clothing she had was a few tunics and two pairs of breeches, and she took care to keep them clean. On her first visit, Yves had showed her the women's bathing pool, pleasantly located underneath a waterfall and surrounded by an array of spray-soaked ferns. Once she got over the cold, she went every day, submerging herself until she was forced to emerge, gasping, fanned with water and light. Yves assured her, laughing, that any man caught lingering would be dealt with severely, in most cases by the woman he'd been attempting to observe.  
  
"I met Imion that way," she said, tossing back her dark brown hair. They were sitting on the edge of the ravine, dropping leaves and watching them turn back and forth on their way to the ground. "Despite his undoubted skills-ah, despite many things, he is not adept at concealment. I saw him hiding behind a tree while I bathed. Once I called him out, he fled, but not before I got a good look at his face. I beat him soundly in combat, and things proceeded from there."  
  
"It must have taken skill," Arwen said after a short silence. She was still uncomfortable talking extensively with the mortal woman, but Yves was exceptionally good at filling awkward silences, and so kind.  
  
"Oh, I wager he was afraid of me," she said. "I was in a passion." She laughed and lay back on her elbows. "It was over in a matter of minutes, but it didn't teach him his lesson."  
  
Arwen's reluctant curiosity was piqued. "You mean-" she started, incredulous, and Yves grinned.  
  
"I was called off to battle the next day," she said. "Small band of orcs, thought they could slip past the Sentries; the usual. When I came back, covered in sweat and gore, all I wanted was to bathe in peace. Imion never did try out for Sentry-I talked him out of it. He hid himself better that time, but stepped on a thorn. He says it was because he was staring at me."  
  
Arwen blushed a deep crimson at the idea. Yves toyed with a fallen leaf, pretending not to notice. "I stepped out of the water unclothed," she finished, "and that time he didn't run."  
  
"I would never... have thought it of him," Arwen said eventually. She was hard put to control her mortification. Imion had always been so quiet and caring to her; to think of him concealing himself in the bushes to watch a woman bathe naked...!  
  
"It's isn't as uncommon as you might imagine," Yves told her. "I'd place my best bow against a broken arrow that Aragorn's done it at some time in his life as well."  
  
"Aragorn!" Arwen exploded, turning to stare at the other woman. "What?"  
  
Yves threw back her head and laughed, her whole body shaking with convulsions of joy. "Oh... gods..." she gasped, choking on a giggle, "you looked so... I'm sorry, Arwen-I shouldn't tease you so. Life here is so much stranger, is it not? How I must portray it, with lusty men and lovemaking at the edge of the-" She clapped her hand to her mouth. "Anyhow," she said, looking such a mixture of dreamy and guilty that Arwen had to swallow a laugh. "Is it not shocking?"  
  
"Exceptionally," she said fervently, unable to stifle a laugh. "However..."  
  
"Yes?" Yves said, her eyes twinkling. "Perhaps your elvish haven is not so chaste, after all?"  
  
"Oh, Valar," she said, suddenly ashamed. She had felt the bizarre need to match Yves' unashamed tale with one of her own, but now it seemed to pale in comparison. "Let me only say that it... involved wine. One thing you may not have here," she said boldly, "is fine drink, and it leads to certain..."  
  
Yves' eyes crinkled with humor. "Say no more," she said, sensing Arwen's creeping discomfort. "I have felt the effects firsthand. We may not have the climax of perfection-" Arwen winced at the double meaning "-but it is enough to encourage even the most timid of souls. You may count on them opening a cask in your honor tonight."  
  
"Tonight?" she asked, taut with anxiety, but Yves waved a languid hand.  
  
"You'll see," she said, with the air of a child with a secret. "I'll leave Aragorn the privilege of telling you."  
  
That afternoon, Arwen found out why.  
  
After her customary cleansing in the pool, Arwen stood naked in her tent, exulting in the feel of the air on her skin. Spring was just passing into summer, with the insects dispersing during the heat of the day and congregating in frantic swarms at evening, but the nights were still cool. She spun in a quick circle, letting the excess water snap and spray out of her hair. It dotted her night-black breeches in even darker patches as she pulled them on and held up the tunic she was contemplating wearing. She hadn't dared to, yet; it was deepest green, with the deepest crimson embroidery on the neck and hem. It was her favorite comfortable, versatile garment to practice her woeful archery and swordplay, but it had a frivolous side that she loved. By way of excuse, she'd told herself she would wear it when she saw Cirdan, but now that she was here it was an irresistible temptation.  
  
"It will seem vain," she said aloud. "I want to be as unremarkable as possible until I get out of here, and it's..."  
  
It had always been the most fitted one she had, and it set off her hips and breasts to their best advantage. She suspected Miriel had sewn it that way on purpose; Liath had been courting her at the time, and the seamstress had caught him kissing her in the garden with his fingers wandering a little more freely than was proper. That was exactly what she didn't want here, of all places.  
  
It was either that or, she saw, the deep brown one-the gray was soaked on account of her forgetting a cloth to dry herself at the pool. With a loud oath, she braided a few select pieces of her damp hair, twined them together at the back of her head, and let the rest fall into its natural curls as it dried. She gave her torso a last moment of attention with the towel, and, satisfied, began to slip the green tunic over her head.  
  
A discreet cough, almost inaudible, disrupted the silence.  
  
Shrieking, Arwen spun, her head still encased in the tunic. If she could just get her arms in and pull it down, she could see the intruder's face, but no, she was facing him with her breasts fully exposed! With another scream of shock, she turned and tripped over her pack, which was lying on the floor. Her knees hit the floor with all the weight of her body behind them and she gave an unmaidenly roar, fighting to extricate herself from the folds, her heart pounding with terror. It was Imion, she thought wildly as she found one arm opening and thrust the required limb into it. He would seduce her and she would have the entire camp hungering for her blood-  
  
Jerking the tunic down over herself, she picked up the pack and stood holding it defensively, searching the tent for the intruder. Aragorn was standing just by the door, wearing that amused, satirical smile, leaning against one of the posts that held up the makeshift door. It didn't help that she knew he had every right to be amused. But no reason for striding in without a knock, the bastard!  
  
"By Sauron's balls!" she shouted. "What in the name of Anfauglir are you gods-damned doing?"  
  
He had the grace to look contrite, at least. Bowing to her, he said quickly, "You had entered your tent some time ago, and I thought you would be in a state to receive visitors. Apparently, I was horribly wrong-please forgive my misjudgment."  
  
"You were watching me?" she cried, folding her arms and staring him straight in the face, willing him to lie. She was still shaking with terror and outrage. He closed his eyes, but couldn't keep the tiniest twitch from the corner of his lips, and she waved the pack threateningly until he controlled the almost-laughter. "Only as you walked back from the pool, my lady. I wanted to speak with you."  
  
"You've just about ruined your chances of that!" she shouted. "Get out! Get out!"  
  
She picked up a wooden plate from next to her cot and flung it at him with an inarticulate shriek of rage. It narrowly missed his head, as she had intended, and split down the middle with a sickening crack. He didn't move away, as she had intended, but crossed the distance in a couple of steps and wrapped one arm around her waist. She opened her mouth, prepared to let him know exactly what she thought of him, but was cut off by his hand. It pressed inexorably against her lips, making it impossible to speak or even scream, as he pinned her against him, putting an end to her writhing struggles.  
  
"The camp will come to its own conclusions if you attempt to raise Morgoth with your screams," he said calmly, "and most of them will probably think I am attempting to have my way with you, which I do not want. I came to tell you that you must attend the gathering tonight, for the evening meal at least. You cannot be the reclusive blossom any longer, Arwen. The clothes you are wearing will do for the purposes; come to the central fire when you can. They all expect to see you there, and I know you are no coward."  
  
He disengaged from her and left the tent without looking back.  
  
She stood there for a long time, remembering the feel of his arm securing her against him, his fingers pressed against her lips. Finally, she re-braided her hair, teased one of the small, snowy flowers behind one ear, and followed his footsteps outside.  
  
Evening was falling by the time he got up and walked to the fire pit, slipping a dagger into one boot. There was a possibility that the wine casks would be opened; Selaine had had a new shipment brought in a week ago, or so the rumors said. He believed it. They hadn't had a meal with fine drink since the last great battle, and he needed fine ale.  
  
There was already a small group around the fire, stoking the embers, laughing and talking quietly. Snatches of voices reached him through the drifting smoke.  
  
"... wouldn't understand, would you, you've only ever been a Ranger, above us Sentry types..."  
  
"... venison, of course..."  
  
"... rains-"  
  
He was greeted by a ragged chorus of hails. The group consisted of both men and women, all dressed casually, weaponless aside from the occasional belt dagger and long knife. A few, he was sure, were concealing more than met the eye; he could see where the fabric tugged on the tip and hilt of a dagger in more than one sleeve. There was always the chance, he thought, and was glad he was armed.  
  
Amras clasped his hand warmly, and he returned the gesture with genuine affection. "Friend," he said after the initial greetings and pleasantries, "perhaps this is our chance to fight together once again. I remember the Trollshaws with no small pleasure."  
  
Amras grinned in recollection. "You were a young, green youth," he said, adopting a poet's somber tones, "as yet untried. You fought well," he added as an afterthought.  
  
Aragorn snorted. "You flatter me. Two orcs, nothing more," he said. "You were surrounded by bodies, and you call me skilled."  
  
"I have my proof," Amras replied. "The entire camp is making preparations, whether they're likely to be called to battle or not. And they are talking about you. Selaine will have to act on your report. The only debate is what she'll say. Common opinion is that she'll dispatch the best warriors and scouts in a wide circle, the usual, only-" he made an incomprehensible motion of his hand "-the best."  
  
"Then I will have many days of rest," Aragorn said, only half-jesting. Selaine knew he had just been out for weeks, and his contract to Arwen was still standing. Once more, he wished it had never come about. All it was was a hindrance, and she wasn't doing anything to make things any more bearable.  
  
Speaking of which, where in Arda was she?  
  
Amras moved away, seeing him scanning the crowd. He was easily taller than most of them, and could see over their heads easily, but the one person he was expecting, nay hoping to see, was absent.  
  
He had probably been too loose with his words when he said 'come when you can.' If she took them literally and arrived for the last few moments of the dinner, he would strangle her with his bare hands. Besides the fact that she would set herself up as shy and vain if she did, he had an absurd desire to prove to her that mortal celebrations could live up to immortal ones. In their own way, at least. Even if they weren't surrounded by sugared arches and strips of fluttering gauze, they could eat and dance as well as any elf.  
  
Minutes passed. Aragorn sipped from a flagon of month-old ale and looked around, trying to conceal his increasing dismay. He'd passed by her tent, flipping up the door with his foot, but it was empty but for the shattered plate, the cot, and a few other scattered items. Perhaps she was lost, or she'd stumbled off the cliff in the approaching darkness...  
  
If the former was true, she'd be able to navigate by the fire. It was enormous, fed by carefully dried logs and the occasional handful of herbs, which made it flare up even higher. The entire camp, excepting a few afflicted with summer fever and tended by Imion, was gathered around, roasting venison on dripping spits, sitting cross-legged, bantering back and forth, with the light of passion or boredom or expectation hot in their eyes. Normally, he would be in the thick of them, but he hung back, filled with strange unease.  
  
They would not be attacked now, at least not without fair warning. There were Sentries posted around the camp, waiting to be relieved as the night wore on, and a few even father out. They would have a cold, quiet night. They would also, he remembered, be on the alert for any movement, and if Arwen made some ill-advised bid for freedom, they would bring her in.  
  
He had no reason to be worried. She would come, if he had to drag her by her heels.  
  
The thought was hardly reassuring.  
  
The first barrels of the newest ale and wine were being rolled in, and he took it as a chance to drift away, his eyes scanning the edges of the shadowy forest. It was like something out of a painting: the brilliant lick and kiss of the orange-gold flames set in painful, comforting contrast to the blackness. Where, by the gods...  
  
A hand on his shoulder brought him to an instant warrior's stance, fists half raised. His state of awareness slipped as he saw Yves, her face calm, dressed in a low-cut tunic and blue breeches. Her eyes were lidded, watching.  
  
"Arwen," he said, and she nodded in understanding.  
  
"I made a remark about the celebrations," she said, "and told her you'd explain. I told her about the wine-she'd said..."  
  
"What?" he asked quietly.  
  
"It would betray her trust," Yves replied, her voice low, "and that I cannot do. She has been through more than you think, and not all of it has to do with lovers and drink."  
  
When he turned his face away, she said, "The pool."  
  
"I had guessed it for myself."  
  
Aragorn had never taken the path to the women's impromptu bath, and the absence of light made the whole process ten times worse. He had good night-eyes and a sense of his surroundings, but nevertheless, he felt awkward, out of place, and foolish, as if the night air had stolen his wits and left him an awkward shell of what he was.  
  
The sliver of moon reflected gently off the pool like a sigh. There was no one there.  
  
On the far edge, to one side of the small waterfall, was a few feet of those flowers she so loved to wear. He crossed and sat down on a rock, his legs leaden. The far-off celebrations were only just beginning, and from the sounds of it, they would continue for a long time.  
  
You should find her, he said to himself, you should help her and protect her and discipline her and whip her and mend the plate she broke and fill it with water and tears.  
  
Such strange thoughts.  
  
So different.  
  
Like her.  
  
The bark of the tree was rough against her hand and arm where her tunic had fallen, exposing the alien white of her skin. They would never accept her within their community of jests and deadly seriousness. They seemed to fluctuate so quickly, two sides of a blade. If she tried, they would only wave their hands and reject her.  
  
Had they rejected Aragorn? Was that why he was sitting with his head bowed, alone?  
  
She had seen him turn towards the pool and followed after a minute; she didn't trust her tracking skills to see her to the water without being heard. But no matter how clumsy she was, he didn't seem to hear her. Glancing nervously back, she saw the distinct mass of flames, dark shapes raising flagons or writhing in strange dances that drew and held her eyes. Not so unlike her birth celebrations, only a week ago, or even less.  
  
Not so unlike after all.  
  
As she watched, uncertain, he shifted position, his boot slipping into the bed of perfect blossoms. The one she had plucked earlier had long since lost its spark, and she had discarded it with a whispered thanks. She hated having to give them up. It seemed a betrayal.  
  
Absurdly, she reassured herself that she only wanted to get a fresh flower. If she was going to join in a mortal revelry, she had to be adorned like a queen.  
  
Heart hammering, she stepped into the open and started hesitantly towards the silent Man. She had half-expected him to look up, or stand, or challenge her, but he remained unmoving. Her body tense, she stepped around the rocks and ferns without looking, her breaths furtive and hushed in the still air. Her eyes were on his crouched form.  
  
"Aragorn?" she said shakily, stepping as close as she dared. "Are you well?"  
  
"Yes," he said wearily. He did not turn to her or even look up, but she felt his attention fix on her. "I am well. Is it any of your concern?"  
  
Stung, she pulled her reaching hand away, unsure of what she had been about to do. She was less hurt by his words than by the bitter tone in which they were spoken, but her feet wouldn't obey her mind's screamed commands to turn and take her away.  
  
"It is my concern," she said tightly, "if you think to force me into a promise you will not keep yourself."  
  
"I made no promise," he said. His voice was resigned.  
  
"If you want me to throw myself into your drunken brawling, you should at least-"  
  
"Be there for you?"  
  
The wind soughed through the trees. Behind her head, the stars winked encouragement.  
  
"No!" she said, her voice rising steadily towards a scream. "You think I want your protection? I want your honor! I will not debase myself in your charnel-house while you sit here and dream! You have no reasons for keeping me here except to flaunt me as your plaything, and I will have no more. Get me out, Aragorn. You swore. Get me out!"  
  
He let her finish without speaking. When she had exhausted her rage, he stood up and took her shoulders in both his hands. She tensed, expecting him to shake her, slap her, but he took her chin in two fingers and turned her face up to his.  
  
"I am keeping you here until the Rangers are chosen," he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "We are on the eve of an attack, and I am not permitted to leave. Worry not; I will be glad to see you gone, but I would never keep you here out of spite alone."  
  
Something inside her was released, a great weight of expectation and sorrow, and she stepped away from him and sank down onto the grass. She heard a breath, the sound of weight being shifted carefully to the ground, and his voice, but it was easier to ignore.  
  
After a while, he stopped speaking.  
  
She was tired, and cold. The one immortal in a sea of those destined to die, and she had never felt so alone in her life. It was as if the world was rising to meet her, clamoring for inspection and decision, but she could not even see the details, only a huge mass pressing against her nose and mouth and slipping down her lungs, malicious, evil-  
  
"It seems that my rejection of your comfort was the wrong step to take," he said, his voice dragging her relentlessly to listen, to look up at his face. "I must now ask you the same question you asked me."  
  
It took a moment to remember what he meant, and then she grimaced weakly and eased herself into a crouch. She favored the position when she was trying to stay alert, but this time she didn't need a reminder. "No, I am not well," she said. "I will leave it to you to figure out why."  
  
"You will be returned."  
  
"Easy to say."  
  
He moved closer, and she pulled her outstretched arm away. A strange expression passed over his face, too quickly to analyze, but it frightened her. His eyes were pits in the scarce light, his mouth a sliver of dark. Then it passed, and she could see those loam-brown irises, the lips poised between thin and full, the hands still.  
  
"Easier to do. We are close to your home, and there is the possibility that we will meet some of your kind. They can lift my oath as quickly as they can swing you onto the backs of their mares."  
  
"Then you can go and fight."  
  
"I doubt it. They will have no space for me."  
  
For a horrible moment, she was impaled by the thought of what she was taking away from him. It was no wonder he had turned against her; from the moment he first laid eyes upon her she had bogged him down. She was keeping him from what he loved and thrusting him into her world as violently.  
... as he had thrust her into his.  
  
"If you let me go now," she said, "he would not hold it against you."  
  
He looked at her. She closed her eyes. If he saw that she did not want him to leave her, that she was afraid of what she would find, that she quailed in the face of death, she would lose all that she had tried to gain.  
  
"Arwen," he said clearly, "when your honor, or your conscience, or your guilt allows you to tell me who he is, I want the truth. All I know is that you fled from a lover's quarrel, and you were followed. The elf who is even now tracing your footsteps found the orc I killed, wrecked its body, and left it there. I know you were involved with him before he turned bitter, and that you do not like being followed."  
  
Her hand dug into the ground, pulling up a handful of dirt and grass and crushing them together. The dirt stained her skin, her nails, her fingers. "No," she whispered, "I do not like being followed."  
  
"Will you go to them?" he asked. "There is venison, still, and a wealth of-"  
  
"No," she replied angrily, standing up and brushing her hands on her tunic to clean them. "I will not."  
  
And with one last, furious look back, she walked out of the clearing and away, her jaw set and her hands stiff at her sides.  
  
Chapter Six: The consequences of Aragorn's behavior towards Selaine come back to bite him, Arwen decides to abandon her ingratiating tactics for yet another method of estrangement, and Aragorn makes a devastating choice that will alter the plot line immensely. 


	6. Decision

Beneath my Feet Author: Earanthiel Cast: Arwen/Aragorn, brief Arwen/OFC, Rumil, Galadriel, Elrond Genre: Drama/Romance Warning: None needed.. again.  
Disclaimer: All characters originally created by Tolkien remain his: I have no claim over them and am making no profit from this story. All other aspects, however, including plot and original characters, are a product of my own imagination and are therefore my property.  
  
Chapter Six: Decision Aragorn once told me that he had to remind himself that he hated the ground beneath my feet, with the most concentrated frustration and confusion he had felt in decades. He told it to himself in his mind when I left him that night by the pool, when I smiled at him at the cliffside, when I tried to murder him with a plate. But, when he turned this over and over in his mind, he realized that frustration was not hate.  
  
And confusion? Disagreeable, yes, but that was all.  
  
After a while, he abandoned this difficulty and turned to a new emotion. This one was even stranger and harder to recognize than hate.  
  
Yves stood, watching her husband as he stoppered vials of treatments and placed them into a small hardwood chest, his hands darting unevenly over the glass. Once every few minutes he glanced up at her, but didn't meet her eyes.  
  
"Will you not look at me, Imion?" she taunted, stepping closer. He gave a muted sound of rage, but continued to work, his jaw set. "There is nothing to fear but fear itself."  
  
"I do not fear Selaine's decision," he said spitefully, tossing a bottle into the chest without looking.  
  
"Then you are afraid of the whispers," she replied. "What you think the rest of the camp will say if she forbids you to fight is far from the truth, and you know it."  
  
"What do you think of a man who cannot fight?" he shouted. "That he is a coward, a fool, an idiot. I do not shrink before the orcs, least of all my own sister-kin. Selaine does not control me!"  
  
"As your kin, she does not," Yves said, unshaken by his rage. "But as your commander, it is her duty to see that you serve as best you can. There are no healers in this camp as skilled as you."  
  
"False flattery," he said dismissively. "You insult me. If I am as good a fighter as you say, what is the danger of my being killed?"  
  
"Imion," Yves cautioned, "you are straying into dangerous ground. You are not impervious to death; no one is. You remember the Trollshaws, do you not? You could easily have died."  
  
"Infection," he started, but his wife cut him off, her lip curling.  
  
"Imion!" she said again, this time with the distinct bite of anger behind her words. "You behave like a spoiled child. I will hear no more of this. If you expect me to listen to your empty-headed babbling because it is my duty, or proof of my love, or whatever you can think up to fool me, I will have no more. You are wallowing, husband, wallowing in your own self-pity."  
  
"You think I take pleasure in this?" he whispered, incredulous. His hands were still.  
  
"Why else would you do it?" she demanded. "Lash out at me, retreat to the forest at all hours, drink yourself into a stupor. They will scorn you for these actions, if nothing else!"  
  
One of the vials shattered, disturbing the air with its discordantblend of glass and liquid. Yves' mouth twisted, and she picked up a cloth and cleaned Imion's hand, cleansing it off the needle-sharp shards. He pulled his fingers away, but not, she noticed, until she was finished.  
  
"I am sorry," she whispered.  
  
"I cannot blame you for what Selaine has done."  
  
"You must understand," Yves said despairingly. "Don't you see? She loves you. You are the only remaining member of her family. What she does is for your protection."  
  
"I am her elder of years," he replied. "She needs not guard me like a helpless child!"  
  
"There is a reason," she said softly, "that Selaine is in her position, not you."  
  
Imion's back stiffened. "You think to deepen my shame," he said. "In all my years, I have never been subject to a lesson this biting."  
  
Yves laid a hand on his where it rested on the ledge. Her voice was filled with all the love and caring she had ever felt for her husband, as was the finger she moved gently up and down his white, clenched knuckles.  
  
"I seek only to protect you, too."  
  
Imion was silent, his lips pulled together in thought. After a moment, he placed his own hand on top of Yves', fingers twining around her own. "Should I feel amused, loved, or forsaken by honor?" he asked. "It is difficult to tell."  
  
"Who am I to tell you what you should be thinking?" Yves inquired wryly.  
  
"My love."  
  
She placed her other hand on top of his. Despite the absurdity of the situation, Imion didn't laugh.  
  
"It would be so much easier to take orders from someone other than my own sister," he said bitterly. "Aragorn is the rightful heir, and we need him. Why to Morgoth will he not do it?"  
  
"Imion," Yves said quietly, "you know why."  
  
Aragorn stopped outside the healer's tent, wracked with thoughts to myriad and strange for him to even attempt to define. He had tried to put aside his guilt at the memory of his coupling with Selaine, but the previous night had brought it all back. He had been overtaken by the feeling, the same one that took hold when he fought, and killed his enemies, and humiliated the emaciated elf in the unnamed clearing. She had expectations, as did he, and he had turned over every single one.  
  
Even spending himself deep inside her had not been satisfying. Physically, it had been the fulfillment of an hour of unending arousal, and in its own way it had gratified his needs, but mentally he was overcome with shame.  
  
It had come so close to rape, oh, too close. If she had asked him to stop, pleaded, her voice breaking, if she had struggled, he didn't know if he could have stopped. There were any number of women who would have bedded him after only a few preliminary days of flirting and seduction, but she was the only one he wanted.  
  
He eased the pain slightly by reminding himself that she had said she wanted him, that no matter what he had done she had still practically begged him to take her. He hadn't spoken to her since that afternoon, and only seen her from a distance. Admiringly, still. The way she commanded was so wordless and complete that she had risen to the leader of the most capable fighters of the West without declaration or even challenge.  
  
He could hear raised voices inside the tent, but they were too quiet for him to make out. Not wishing to eavesdrop on any quarrel between two of the people he respected most in the camp, he stepped away a few feet, hoping they would resolve whatever trouble had arisen soon. Imion would have been at the revels last night, and he would have heard what Selaine had said, and who she had dispatched.  
  
Of course, he could ask anyone else, but he didn't want questions. Imion would accept what he was asking, and the emotions that he couldn't hide, without outward speculation, and he would tell no one. Except, perhaps, Yves, but he could rely on her to stay silent.  
  
There was a brief silence. Restless to find any distraction from his burden, he stepped inside the tent with his customary lack of announcement.  
  
All he could see of the two was Yves' back, but he gathered from their movements that he had not entered at an opportune time. She stepped away after a moment and began to clean up a circle of glass pieces on the floor underneath her feet with hardly a glance his way. Imion raised one eyebrow in a manner agonizingly reminiscent of his sister and followed Aragorn outside.  
  
"Tell me," he said without preamble, and Imion nodded. He seemed to be searching for the easiest way to break bad news.  
  
They took a little-used path that rounded the camp and wandered along the edge of the ravine, courting danger a mere twelve inches from the drop. All Aragorn could hear was their combined footfalls, and the brief wind, sighing through the leaves, teasing one or two from their branches, flirting ineffectually with others. He was impatient, but he knew that he had broached a difficult subject, and was grateful for Imion's care.  
  
"Selaine arrived in the middle of the festivities," he said, "soon after the wine was flowing. None were drunk, yet, and she stood on a chair and delivered like I have never seen. She was impassioned. It was as if she had returned from an encounter with Morgoth himself, and won."  
  
Aragorn nodded shortly. Imion looked at him for a moment and continued, "She said that we were to face this threat no differently than usual, no matter how the orcs attacked and fought. They were still the enemy, she said, and we the warriors.  
  
"She mentioned you."  
  
Before Aragorn could speak, he went on, "I will quote her as best I can. She spoke, 'We have been duly warned by Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and for this we are in his debt. But we do not need the warning. If they attacked in the darkest hours, we could slay them all.' "  
  
"Are you to go?" Aragorn asked, masking his frustration.  
  
"I am to heal," Imion replied, "but not to fight."  
  
"I am sorry," Aragorn said, but Imion waved a hand.  
  
"Do not pity me," he said. "I recognize her wisdom. Gods, I apologize," he said suddenly. "There was another thing she said, concerning you. Besides the list itself."  
  
"Imion," Aragorn said, his voice dangerous, "if you wish to say something, I will not be offended. I am not in the habit of killing the messenger."  
  
Imion gave a mirthless smile. "In Selaine's words, you are to take your elf maiden back to Rivendell, and have the joy of it."  
  
It took an enormous effort of will to continue walking at all, much less at his customary natural pace. He wanted to stop, to turn and run, to rip aside the veil of time and bed Selaine again, this time with the gentleness and caring he had never shown.  
  
Instead, he nodded as if the entire matter was as unimportant as the rising and setting of the sun and said, a little too quickly, "I thank you, and wish you luck. I am sure that the lives you will save will be far more than the ones you would have ended."  
  
Imion bowed his head in acknowledgment and thanks and said, "In two weeks' time, the first band is sent out. And as for your quest," he added, "I will not say I am sorry. You will understand."  
  
Aragorn hardly noticed Imion turn and leave.  
  
If he had not committed that horrible, unforgivable slight to Selaine, she would have found some excuse to send him to fight.  
  
Without the slightest twinge of self-satisfaction, he knew that he was one the best Rangers she had. Surely, there were others that far surpassed his limits, but she would do well to bring him with her, and she knew it. However, personal pride would make it impossible.  
  
There was no way around it. He had shamed and humiliated Selaine beneath him, and ended by spilling himself into the depth of her, as if they were lovers, not adversaries. One thing was sure, and that was that if they had ever felt any degree of passion that transcended the physical, it was gone.  
  
Arwen. It all came down to her. She was the temptress in his path (figuratively, without a doubt), the boulder, the lion. If he could get her out of the way, perhaps some of Selaine's jealousy would be sated and he could persuade her, with logic and disguised sweet words, to let him come.  
  
To fight. It was all he had left.  
  
He felt dirty, disgusted with himself. His thoughts of Arwen were selfish and mean-spiritedÑshe had no control over the actions of some demented elf, and she obviously wanted to leave as much as he wanted to get her away. Underneath her spite and anger, she could be gentle and unexpectedly kind. The streak of rebellious energy underneath the mask of maidenhood only added spice to the illusion of innocence, and it intrigued him. If she had been mortal, he would have pursued her, spoken to her, learned the secrets to unlock her tongue.  
  
There had to be some way to dispose of her (he writhed inwardly at the word). Oaths were not always concrete, unless they took hours to speak. There were always loopholes to be found.  
  
Arwen would be in her tent. It was time to find her.  
  
Arwen had dreamed of Elrond the night before. He was standing before her, his hand outstretched, speaking words in a twisted, archaic tongue strange to her. She asked him to explain, to speak her language, but he began to mouth in Westron, his voice fading as his hair became shorter, lines appearing in his face, his lips fuller, eyes changing from sloe-black to a rich, deep brown  
  
She woke with the image of Aragorn standing before her, but in her mind he was smiling.  
  
Wondering how she could have thought up such a preposterous image, since she'd never seen him wear any expression besides sarcastic, annoyed, resigned, or mock-amused, she sat up to see him standing before her.  
  
The possibility of ordering him out in a rage flitted through her mind, but she brushed it away. She could not summon up the necessary emotion. Instead, she sat up, wrapping the blanket around her, and looked up at him. Sleep was still heavy about her, and all she could remember was that huge, welcoming smile.  
  
"What is it?" she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and sitting up straight. The light streaming in through the open door flap was intensely bright and searing, even through her closed eyes. "Gods, what is the hour?"  
  
"Close to noon," Aragorn said curtly. She looked up in shock at his tone, but the moment she opened his mouth he raised a hand and asked, "Have you any skill at archery or swordplay?"  
  
"I was taught by one of my kind, who has great skill with a blade and bow," she replied, her good mood evaporating at the hardness in his eyes. "But if you expect me to accompany you and fight, I will not."  
  
"Will not or cannot?" he asked, but it was obvious that he didn't expect an answer. "I will instruct you then. You have five days to prove yourself, and then you will be on your own."  
  
A chill was settling in her stomach, creeping from the inevitable realization of what he was about to say. While her thoughts were clashing and blending and battling each other, her body lifted her up to stand in front of him, her lips and tongue to form the words she didn't, couldn't want to say  
  
"I do not understand."  
  
"The first Rangers leave for battle in two weeks, and you will be traveling in the opposite direction."  
  
"On my own," she said, still stupid with sleep.  
  
"I cannot bring you back!" he said harshly. "Do you not understand? You are going back to Rivendell alone."  
  
He turned to leave, his back stiff and his head held deceptively high, but she stood and ran to block the doorway. The blanket fell from her shoulders as she held her arms out, closing the way, but she could hardly have cared.  
  
"You are under oath!" she cried. "You owe me an explanation for what you have done. Do you think you can teach me to fight in five days?"  
  
"I think that whatever I can do will be enough," he said, and without looking at her he took her arm, removed her from the doorway with ease, and stepped outside.  
  
When he had gone, and all that was left was the lingering scent of him, that blend of smoke and spice that she had come to know so intimately well, she fell to her knees and sobbed. The tears welled up from the undefined place in her that held all her anger at being left alone, her fear of death, her loathing of Aragorn, and her longing for Imladris, and it erased everything else in its tide. Her shoulders heaved with it, her nose ran, and she curled up on the ground, letting the coolness of the earth seep into her skin.  
  
Elrond was there, once again.  
  
So overwhelming, so present, so there that she didn't believe its truth. He was holding his hand out to her, but wrapped around her fingers was a thin, fluid chain, hanging heavy and burdened to the luminous weight at the end, a thin vial of pure crystal, twined with what could only be described as fingers, living rays of light. It was shining in his hand, illuminating every line of his skin, and he was grave yet amused as he handed it to her.  
  
She stretched out a hand and let it fall into her palm. As it came into contact with her, the light dissipated, shining for a sliver of a moment and dying into dark.  
  
Her eyes brimming once again with tears, she looked up at her father, trying to speak, but he only smiled and said, "I will not say I am sorry."  
  
She bowed her head and wept once more, but this time the tears were silent. When she raised her eyes, Elrond Halfelven was gone, and both of her hands were empty and cold.  
  
Weeping had cleansed her, and the feelings of betrayal were gone. Somehow, she understood. She would have broken her oath if battle was her life, and if she had brought the news of an impending attack and been forbidden to defend it.  
  
But that didn't mean she could forgive him.  
  
She tried to console herself by saying that once she resumed her old life, he would be nothing more than a memory, but it was shattered by the realization that she didn't have an old life. Erestel had changed, her view of Rœmil had been replaced, and Aragorn had shown her the mortal world. He would never leave her.  
  
There was nothing she could do but what he said she must.  
  
She arrived at the clearing when he told her to come, and he was waiting with her weapons. Something seemed to have closed in him, that small window through which his jests and humor would slip unchallenged, and in response she shielded herself as well.  
  
From the beginning, she saw that his style and skill was so different from Rœmil's as to be a world apart, separated by different enemies, bows, and cultures. She held her bow in one hand, her quiver heavy on her shoulder, watching him as he shot. The arrow sang through the air to bury itself an inch from the center, and with a grunt of dissatisfaction he shot another, which found the middle exactly.  
  
No sooner had she lifted her bow than he corrected her, changing everything from her stand to her fingers on the string. She obeyed without protest, trying to clear her mind of apprehension as she sighted along the arrow towards the target. No matter how hard she tried, she could not lift the feeling that she must perform well in front of him.  
  
With a small intake of breath, she loosed the arrow.  
  
Even as she did so, she knew it would not strike where she wanted. The strange position was confusing her, as was the placement of her feet, and the arrow fell quivering in the dirt a foot away. She selected another without comment and set it to the string, judging where she had gone wrong, and loosed. This time it struck the outer edge, a few inches in, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it would not take so long after all.  
  
The next arrow went wide, missing the target abysmally. Desperate to hit it again, she sighted too quickly, and the arrow grazed the edge before loosing itself in the grass. She was sweating slightly now, and even the sound of the fourth arrow striking the target was not enough to reassure her.  
  
Aragorn stood to one side, hands on his hips, watching. Every so often, he would approach her and change one infinitesimal mistake she was making, then resume his untiring vigil. She could feel his eyes on her, and every time she stopped to think about it, her arrows missed their mark.  
  
He is not there, she told herself. You are alone.  
  
It helped slightly. The next arrow struck a few inches towards the center, closer than she had brought it during the course of the morning, and she took it as a sign of encouragement. Her muscles were already tired, unused to the strange stance and position still, and she swung the bow down to rest them for a moment.  
  
"You are weary?" Aragorn asked.  
  
She looked up, expecting to see surprise or annoyance on his face, but it was calm. Nodding shortly, she lifted the bow and chose another arrow, closing her eyes briefly. Whenever she was tired, both physically and mentally, the small nerve underneath her right eye twitched, and it was making it difficult to see the target.  
  
The next three arrows struck the edge, and the fourth missed completely. Unable to conceal her sigh, she went to retrieve them, setting the bow down with a marked lack of care.  
  
"Mind how you handle it," Aragorn said softly, "or you will find it is reluctant to answer to your hand."  
  
Perhaps you should take your own advice, she thought suddenly, but didn't speak aloud.  
  
Once she had collected all the arrows, conscious all the while of his presence at her back, she turned to find him standing with her bow in hand. Flustered and upset, she dropped the quiver, sending the shafts spilling to the ground at her feet. Infuriatingly, he made no move to help her, or any comment to make light of the situation, leaving her to scramble about on her hands and knees. And all the while, he watched her.  
  
Standing, unable to meet his eyes, she reached out for the bow, but instead of its weight felt the cool brush of air. She glanced up and saw him placing it against a nearby tree and unsheathing her sword. A few sharp protests came to mind, each more cutting than the last, but her throat was constricted by every breath she took.  
  
"You have had enough of the bow," he said. "I can see it. Practice is all you need. You have had an incompetent instructor thus far, and I mean to remedy that. Meanwhile, we shall test your skill with the sword."  
  
She took the sword in mute assent and took up a guard stance, feet planted firmly, sword held angled towards him. His own blade was in his hand, held loosely, and he began to circle her, eyes hooded like a predatory beast's.  
  
"Do you think you have more skill with the bow, or the sword?" he asked, stepping to one side and back to the center. His eyes were fixed on her torso and chest, and a hot blush rose to her cheeks as he spoke.  
  
"The sword," she replied, moving warily back.  
  
"By how much?"  
  
"The smallest amount."  
  
"Gods, it is like to extracting a nail from the stomach of a horse, speaking with you," he observed, making as if to lunge but pulling back at the last moment. "Perhaps in battle it is the same."  
  
Without the vaguest idea what his last remark signified, except that it was spoken in the tone he used when aiming to make her angry, she thrust inwards, aiming for his heart. Surprise sparked in his eyes before they closed, fully intent on the fight, and she rose, eager, to the challenge.  
  
From the first moment, it was clear that his ability far surpassed hers, almost to the point of eclipsing it. It was also obvious that he was holding back, and though a little insulted by it, she was also inwardly grateful. If he had decided to fully shame her, she would hardly have lasted past his first stroke. He was so graceful when he fought, so focused, so dead yet vibrantly alive, that it was easy to want to kill him. Every thrust she made had more power behind it than she had initially desired to use.  
  
He parried easily, twisting his wrist to throw off her blow and stepping inwards, slicing towards her neck. Ducking, she drove upwards into his belly, only to be blocked and forced backwards, stumbling. Rœmil had never fought like this, but he too had had that deadly, concentrated cast to his face, and the intensity in his movements that was never, had never, been there at any other time.  
  
Aragorn grinned suddenly and pressed towards her, holding her sword off with his own, using his body to force her back. No matter how she twisted and fought, trying to step away and let his momentum carry him forward, he stayed on the attack, his eyes bright with the end. Her foot caught on a root, and she barely managed to save herself by a swift look down and back. There was a tree behind her, and he meant to press her against it and cut off all means of escape.  
  
With a savage scream, she placed a hand underneath his shoulder, in the soft place where his arm joined his torso, and thrust up and out. It wasn't enough to throw him off balance, but it was unexpected enough to break his relentless attack and allow herself an opening. Falling back, he nodded and said, "It is to be a fight, then."  
  
Caught off guard, she lowered her sword, and he attacked. This time, he was not holding back.  
  
It took a matter of moments to send her blade stabbing into the ground and to bring his up to her throat, pressing into the white skin. She opened her hand, and the ring of metal on the hard ground brought him back, as if it had called him from another place. He pressed the honed edge of his blade against her, not hard enough to make her bleed, but uncomfortably nonetheless, and whispered, "You yield, I presume?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You have some skill," he said, cleaning his sword on the edge of the tunic and extending a hand for hers. "Perhaps your instructor knew more about the blade."  
  
"No," she replied, surrendering it. "He did not."  
  
"Then you accepted it more readily, perhaps."  
  
"Perhaps, yes."  
  
"You are to practice with the bow half an hour for the first two days, an hour the next until your departure. I will continue to teach you the sword, every day, the same time," he told her, turning back as he left the clearing. His face was outlined in the dying light, blurring his features. "I expect you to be here."  
  
"Do not stay awake nights over it," she said with a flash of her old spirit, but her face was cold. "I will."  
  
He watched the man leave, and saw Arwen rub her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand. She looked tired, fatigued, and close to tears. More than ever, he wanted to go to her, hold her, and tell her that he loved her. If only he had not already done so, then he would take the chance now, when her protector had turned on her and she was tired and alone.  
  
But she would recoil in horror if she could see him now.  
  
He'd followed her for days, since he commissioned Aragorn to guide her, and watched his plans crumble to nothing. First, he had taken her here, and then he had abandoned her to the forest. Lack of food, anxiety, guilt, and a great, empty grieving had wasted his body, and his hair was dirty and tangled around his face. Even his best, sturdiest tunic had been torn down the side by a wayward branch. Everything was falling.  
  
Everything.  
  
But still, he could not think of himself. If Arwen was in need, then his own desires paled. She was obviously in more trouble than she could comprehend, especially with the added danger of a massive orc invasion. From he gossip he had overheard, and the quiet, driven signs of preparation, there was more to fear than a few gibbering goblins with crossbows.  
  
The Rangers, he grudgingly admitted, were some of the best warriors he had ever seen. They rivaled even Elrond, Valar help him, and he had seen the Lord of Rivendell fight. Surely, Elrond would defeat any of theirs, but not without a trying battle. If Arwen were to be escorted back to Rivendell with one of them, he would not have to fear for her safety, but to be set loose alone...  
  
She looked up, coming out of a deep, hazy reverie, and set off for the camp, her head low. He followed the unconscious sway of her hips with his eyes. She had unbound her hair, and it was lying heavy down her back, its curls damp with exertion. Once more the desire jerked within him, lust tempered with love. If his emotions were a wine, it would be of the most exquisite make. Bittersweet.  
  
If Aragorn was true to his word and left her, which he could not doubt, perhaps he would show himself then. Mend his previous conduct and show her how he wished her to see him. Which, eventually, would be as his wife, but he would approach that gently.  
  
He would teach her how to love him.  
  
It felt wrong, to think of it that way, but those were the only words he had. If he could not persuade her or force or coax her, he would be subtle. He would watch, and learn, and use his knowledge. Her Ranger had left her, and he was the only one watching.  
  
She was gone now. The clearing was quiet.  
  
And he knew that his following, his observance of her, was what she did not want.  
  
He had been there, when she spoke to Aragorn, when she let down her barriers and invited him in. She had only done it twice; once, after Bane had disarmed her with his charm and attention, and Aragorn had rescued her and tended to her injury, and then when he had laid his vulnerable side bare. If he was interested in her, and if he had any sense, he would remember both times, and use them to his advantage. But there was no doubt that the great hulking brute could care less about her feelings, or her beauty, or her...  
  
Or was there? Aragorn had seen how she responded to him, and he had not been indifferent. In fact, he had opened his door and practically extended a hand to help her through.  
  
a dirty, disheveled Aragorn lying on the ground, his mouth smeared with brilliant crimson blood. Arwen on top of him, the tentative, almost terrified look on her face melting into wonder, and slow, slow recognition. Lowering her lips to his in a gentle, fearful caress, too questioning to be a kiss, but so close, his hands in her hair, drawing her closer, his leg wrapping around hers  
  
He tore his mind away, shaking. The image had not been of his own making. It had appeared fully formed, driving him to question what had only been an idea, to move his lips in silent prayer. Please, Valar, let it never be.  
  
It will not, he told himself, trying to believe he spoke with the voices of the Gods. It can never. He is mortal, she is elf-kind. What has never happened will not happen now.  
  
What about Beren and Luthien? a nagging voice at the back of his mind insisted. They were the most pure lovers the world has ever known. They risked all for each other, Beren giving up his pride and his hand, Luthien her very immortality. The child of Elrond is Arwen, and Aragorn is the last of an unending line of kings and chieftains that began in the womb of the wife of Elros. Will you deny the heritage of Earandil and Elwing, from whose union were born these two great elven-kings?  
  
He has forsaken what noble blood he ever had, the elf argued savagely. Only a thread of elvish blood is in his veins, and he has ignored it enough as to destroy it completely.  
  
No rogue thoughts rose in challenge, and he smiled in cold triumph. Arwen could never love a Man.  
  
Chapter Seven: A strange object is discovered that should not have been in a mortal camp, Aragorn gets an unsettling idea, and Arwen... well, Arwen is unsettled as well, but by many more things than just one... 


End file.
